Knight of the Way
by CasaHouse
Summary: Sequel to Clad in Black. Prequel to The Code. Our protagonist meets a the goddess of his order.
1. Knight of the Way

This isn't technically a Naruto fic, but the opening and closing scenes are tied to my first story, which is.

As things are shaping up, this will be the first part of a trilogy regarding the subject matter.

.

…

…

…

.

Jiraiya raised his hands, calling for silence with mock gravitas. They'd just finished their fifth round of drinks, with shots between, and all mental filters were effectively gone by now.

"I hereby declare today's meeting of the Ungentlemanly Shinobi Council to order."

A cheer went up, the small group raising their drinks and clinking their mugs together. This had become a tradition in the past few years. Once every few months, they would go out, find the seediest bar they could, and swap old stories. Given the members involved, it was no surprise that several of the stories had ended up in Jiraiya's books.

"Tonight's topic of discussion: Most impressive…" Jiraiya paused, making a meal of the next word. "_Conquest._"

The table chuckled, all eyes falling to Naruto.

"I've loved the same girl since I was eight." Naruto pouted. "Fuck you all. I'm not telling more stories. The last one damn near got me killed. I cannot believe you actually made her hair pink in the novel."

"Senior moment." Jiraiya said with a chuckle. He turned to the table. "So, any takers?"

"Foursome," Gaara began calmly.

"Kage," Kakashi spoke next.

"_Kages_," Eyebrows were raised. Jiraiya raised his hands in mock surrender. "All right, it wasn't at the same time."

"Threesome," Kiba said, "but they _**hated**_ each other, so it was difficult."

Respectful nods were given.

"Twins." Another voice spoke simply.

"Goddess."

All eyes spun to face Drake, who was waving for another drink from the bartender.

"Goddess?" Jiraiya's notebook was already in his hands.

"Bullshit." Kakashi slurred his words slightly. "You're the least spiritual man here."

"That's why it's my most impressive," Drake nodded, accepting another heavy mug.

Jiraiya shoved Kakashi aside and took the seat beside Drake, notebook and pen ready, eyes imploring him to continue. A glance around the group showed some combination of skepticism and curiosity written across every face.

He sighed, a smile ghosting across his features for a moment as he stared down into his drink.

"It was back when I was playing at being a Knight…"

.

…

…

…

.

The knight knelt in a small chapel, morning's first rays of sunlight casting the image of the goddess with a radiant halo. His armor was dark steel, mined from one of the mountains to the west. Every piece was perfectly sized to his form without being ostentatious. The helm on the cobblestones before him bore a crest of black horsehair, and the well-worn black tabard over his chest bore the dragon rampant, the symbol sharply embroidered in white thread. They had been Roane's reward to him after the Blackclad victory. A sad smirk briefly lit his face as he remembered. His close-cut dark hair framed features that seemed younger than they should be.

Except for his eyes. His eyes were leaden and tired.

He fought to control the gift, to leash it, to draw the aura into himself. The pain came again in a heavy rush, rolling into his head like an unwelcome guest. He focused his will on controlling the aura. Shrinking it until it was contained within his body. The pain in the back of his mind pulsed incessantly. It made thinking difficult, but he held it. Setting his sword point-down, he rest his forehead on the pommel. The town's chapel was a small affair, a stone sculpture of the Lady on a wooden plinth. Radiant light fell on the scene through the stained glass above the shrine. A small crowd had gathered behind him, keeping a polite distance and watching him as he knelt.

"Lady of Grace, hear my prayer." He muttered grumpily, the cold metal of the sword feeling sublime against his aching head. "Task me to the purpose to which my gifts are suited. Or send me to someone who can defeat me, and put an end to this endless flight." He paused, clenching his teeth as a spike of pain shot through his mind. He let his voice fall to a harsh whisper. "Failing that, a little relief from this headache would be lovely."

He bowed his head, regulating his breathing and waiting. He didn't expect an answer. Two years into the Quest, the Lady had yet to actually answer one of his prayers, but the sense of peace and tranquility in the chapel was something to be treasured. He stayed there for almost half an hour, unmoving, listening to the murmurs of the crowd and enjoying the simple calm the shrine seemed to radiate.

Eventually he stood, bracing his helm under the crook of one arm, and the image was perfect: a Knight of the Way, making his morning observances before setting out. He sheathed the blade at his hip and strode through the small crowd. Several of them stopped to thank him, and he favored them with a hand on a shoulder or a warm smile. A few children tugged at his tabard or cloak, and he swept one up onto his shoulder and let another carry his helm. The children were delighted, and he found a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he strode back to the Inn.

Knights of the Realm were nobility. The sons of wealthy nobles, out to war to boldly exaggerate their own glories and revel in the praise they received. They served the interests of their family, defending their own lands and treating their serfs like garbage. Knights of the Way were different. They followed the Goddess of the common folk: the Blessed Lady, the Lady of the Lake, her titles as diverse and widespread as her worship.

Her knights wandered the world, living by the code laid down by Artur and his Inner Circle in the ancient days. The Knights of the Way were folk heroes, riding through the country battling evil, protecting the innocent, and generally behaving like the knights the legends told of. Unlike the bickering nobility that most of the ancient knightly orders had become, they had no real political power, no lands, no subjects, but their order was beloved by the people.

The driving purpose behind their deeds was different. The Knights of the Way were, to a man, on a quest. _**The**_ Quest: to prove themselves worthy to their goddess and receive her blessing. They traveled the world, leading others by example and striving to prove their honor and virtue.

When a knight received the Lady's blessing, he was given a title by the Goddess herself. There was the Golden Lion, the Shield of Night, the Blade of Reason, the list went on. Only one hundred and seven knights in the five-hundred year history of the Order of the Way had received the Lady's blessing. All names Drake had to memorize upon entry to the Order. He remembered the long nights of study with the other novices, poring over old scrolls and inscriptions and learning of the glories of the past.

He'd taken up the Quest in the late stretches of the spring after the Blackclad siege. It had been almost two years since. It was well into the last days of winter now, the brisk mornings giving way to warm sunlight during the day. He'd received word that one of his brother knights was in the area, and had come to this town looking for him. He'd left several weeks prior, but as it turned out their roads were being plagued by bandits. So he'd done as his vows demanded and sorted the situation out.

_The first core tenet,_ he thought, setting the boy from his shoulder back to the ground and retrieving his helm. _No Knight shall deny aid to those in need._

He let his mind wander back to his encounter with the thieves. He'd tried to scare them off. To threaten them and drive them away, but they hadn't listened. They'd attacked him, thinking that outnumbering him five to one was enough. Leaving their bodies burning on a pyre, he'd followed their trail back to their camp. It was sunset when he'd arrived, and they were looting the bodies of a caravan they'd waylaid on the road. Four families lay piled next to their wagons; women, children, and elders. He'd let the rage take him for the first time in almost a year, a fact he wasn't proud of.

_The second core tenet,_ he paused. _No Knight shall let evil go unanswered._

When the red had faded from his vision, none of them were left alive. The camp was a charnel house, and his armor was caked red with their blood. He'd spent the night burying the piled bodies of the slain families, returning them some of the respect they'd been denied in life. After cleaning the gore from his armor and tabard, he'd departed. The bandits he'd left to rot.

"Leaving us already, Sir Knight?" the innkeeper's voice dragged him back to the present. He nodded with a smile.

"I didn't write the tenets," he ran a hand through his messy hair, "but the Lady is not to be disappointed."

He reached the modest room he'd rented at the Inn, and began to pack.

_The third core tenet,_ he mused. _No Knight shall stay under the same roof for more than two sunsets._

That had been interesting to get used to. Even amongst the most conservative among the order, the third tenet was creatively interpreted. For some reason that made it appealing to him. He kept to it perfectly. Even moving camp every other night when he _didn't_ stay under a roof. As he finished packing his meager belongings, he set the fur-lined cloak about his shoulders, slipping his arms under it and setting three throwing blades at the back of his belt, and another between his shoulder blades.

_The fourth core tenet,_ he thought sadly. _No Knight shall use any weapon with a reach longer than a sword's blade._

It wasn't that he didn't respect the Knight's Code, far from it. But in the early days of his quest, a murderer had escaped him. Three times, he'd slipped from Drake's grasp. Three times, the man simply traveled lighter and had a faster horse. The man had taken five more victims before Drake had gotten hold of him. It wasn't right that a Knight's vow give an advantage to beasts like that. He knew the history. He knew the name of the exact knight who had laid down the fourth tenet. But it wasn't right.

So he'd made his peace with the fact that he was going to be more… creative… in his adherence to some of the stuffy old protocols. The elders among the Order would cast him out if word of it spread, but keeping secrets was a specialty of his. They'd cast him out if they found out he didn't really believe all the dogma, too. He wanted to, he really did. But whenever he thought of it, it all just smacked of fairy tales and exaggeration. There was one thing he couldn't deny, though. Being on the Quest, traveling around helping those in need and punishing the wicked felt good. It felt… _right_.

Since he'd taken up the mantle of the Way, not a single bounty hunter had found him. Talk among the folk was that Drake had either fled the country or died of his wounds following the battle with the Blackclad. It had been over two years since he'd killed anyone just to save his own skin, over two years since he'd killed anyone whom he didn't know deserved it. That fact, and that fact alone, had given him his first peaceful sleep since he could remember.

He finished packing his things and slung the pack over one shoulder, setting fresh logs in the fireplace for the next tenant. Striding down to the main room, he tossed a pair of silver coins to the innkeeper. The man caught them on reflex, but moved to give them back.

"Sir Knight, you saved us from the bandits." He began, shaking his head. "I can't take these."

_The fifth core tenet_, he thought. _No knight shall accept any reward for his deeds beyond the gratitude of the people._

"I put my mercenary days behind me when I took up the Quest." Drake paused, leaning in with a conspiratorial smirk. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "And between the two of us… those coins were _from_ the bandits."

The innkeeper laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. He smiled and returned the gesture. "Thank you for your hospitality." He nodded to the man.

"Thank you for saving our town." The innkeeper chuckled, gesturing to the tabard and armor. "The world needs more of you."

"The world can barely handle one of me." Drake said with a laugh, feeling a fleeting moment of genuine camaraderie with the grizzled old innkeeper. "But thank you."

He strode out into the morning sun, headed for the stables. With any luck, he could be at the next town by midday, and maybe find out where his fellow knight's wanderings had taken him.

.

…

…..

…

.

The blonde knight withdrew his blade, giving it a cursory flick to rid it of the monster's tainted blood. The mercenaries he'd been traveling with surrounded the corpse, checking it for any signs of life. There were none. The beast resembled some nightmarish mix of lion and bear, with venomous spines erupting from its mane at random intervals. It had been attacking a nearby city, so the people had pooled their resources to hire the mercenary band to take it down. As soon as he'd heard the story, he'd pledged himself to the cause for no charge.

The tattooed man with the throwing blades and knives was trying to wrench one of the monster's fangs free as a trophy. Each of the two hedge mages in the black robes was cowering behind their massive armored bodyguard.

The five of them had been little help, but it wasn't his place to judge. The people were safe. The beast was vanquished, and he could be on his way again soon. He dropped to one knee, planting the point of his blade in the soft loam of the swamp.

"Lady of grace, I thank you for your guidance in this matter." He touched his forehead to the pommel of the sword. "Let this creature's tortured soul find peace and lead me to my next tasking."

He felt an almost irresistible pull on his soul, telling him to head to the waterfront. He stood, trying to identify the feeling. His feet moved without conscious thought, carrying him toward the lake he knew was a quarter mile south. He moved through the trees, barely feeling his footfalls on the ground.

His fatigue from the half-day chase and battle with the beast vanished. He felt light-headed, almost giddy. The air tingled on his face, and seemed to toy with his hair. All the pain from his wounds was gone, and he glanced down to see them healing as he walked. The sight was almost… frightening. He dragged his eyes up. He was at the shoreline, the pristine white sand barely moving as he paced across it to the waterfront.

A slender female figure was rising from the waters, clad in a gown of shimmering white silk. Her hair was purest blonde, almost white, spilling down almost to the ground. Eyes of sapphire blue opened on a face that was more perfect than he could comprehend, and she raised one hand, beckoning him toward her.

"Tovar." She spoke his name calmly. "Stand before me."

He was so enraptured by the sight of the Lady of the Lake that he never noticed the tattooed man slip behind him and draw the knife. The blade sliced through the gap behind his knees, severing the tendons and dropping him to the ground. He pushed himself to his knees in time to see the two hedge mages the town had hired throw aside their black robes, each revealing the garb of an archbishop of the Sharn Temple. They grasped holy symbols and began to chant as runes of binding encircled the Goddess, wrapping her body and holding her paralyzed.

"NO!" the blond knight bellowed, trying to rise. His legs were numb, and wouldn't respond. The tattooed man calmly spun the knife around and slid it to the hilt in the back of his neck. The knight fought for a moment, gnashing his teeth around the blood that bubbled to his lips, but his limbs wouldn't answer him. His balance failed him and he fell forward, dead before he hit the ground.

The bound Goddess was dragged from her place in the lake, hauled bodily toward a flat outcrop of stone some forty feet away. The priests busied themselves drawing symbols and etching spells, until the entire surface of the rock was scrimshawed with fine lines of chalk. The two bodyguards lifted the woman's willowy form onto the makeshift altar, pinning her arms and legs to it.

She didn't struggle. She just looked at them each in turn, seeming to measure their souls as they bound her to the stone slab. The chalk lines ignited with a golden inner light, carving into the surface of the stone like acid. They pulsed brighter as they locked the irons around her wrists and ankles. One of the priests moved to stand over her, and drew a ritual dagger, raising it above his head in both hands.

"There is only one god in Sharn." The priest intoned, bunching his muscles for the downward stroke. "And he is a jealous God."

"Hold!" a voice boomed across the darkness.

The knife wavered, another Knight had ridden into the clearing. He was larger than the first, astride the most massive horse any of them had seen. His armor was of a simpler make, but there was no mistaking the garb of another Knight of the Way.

"I can take him," one of the armored bodyguards said, puffing out his chest. The second priest replaced him, holding down the radiant woman's legs. "I challenge you to single combat."

"We know the rules of your order." The lead priest said simply, setting the knife beside the woman on the altar and raising his hands. "You cannot kill an unarmed man. And you cannot refuse a chall..." the words became a gurgling wheeze as a thrown knife thudded into the man's throat. Another materialized in the eye of the bodyguard holding the woman's shoulders down, and he fell without a sound.

"The Code of the Blade," the second priest was babbling in terror. "No Knight of the Way can use anything with a range of longer than a sword's blade." His tone was almost hysterical. "You can't throw knives! You are bound by the rules of your order!"

"I am bound…" The knight spoke, stepping down from the saddle and drawing the longsword from his hip, "By _nothing_."

The tattooed man made a series of sweeping motions with his hands, and a dull glow suffused the bandolier of knives on his chest. He drew a pair and threw them, and a fresh set instantly replaced them. The two thrown blades sailed toward the advancing knight, only to be deflected by a deft stroke of the blade. The knight never broke stride, calmly walking toward the tattooed man, his sword at the ready. Another pair of knives flew unerringly toward the slit in the knight's visor. They were swatted from the air with a snarl of contempt, dissolving into smoke a few seconds after they stopped moving. The man's arms became a blur, drawing and throwing the conjured knives at a speed that seemed impossible, the glow suffusing the bandolier burned brighter. The knight's sword moved like quicksilver, cutting a constellation of blows that sent every knife off course. Some glanced off of armored plate, most missed entirely. The knight continued to advance, closing the distance with an almost malicious slowness. They were only a couple paces apart now, and two knives flew in unison toward the knight's throat. A gauntleted backhand knocked them out of the air.

They were face to face now, and as the tattooed assassin's hands reached to draw a fresh pair, they closed on nothing but empty space. He glanced down. The glow around the bandolier was gone. The six knives it had held were scattered about the clearing.

"That spell should have last an hour." He stammered.

The knight didn't reply. His sword hammered down through the assassin's shoulder, exiting above his hip in a wash of blood. The body fell to the ground in two pieces. He turned and strode to where the second priest was desperately trying to retrieve the knife over the bound girl.

Another thrown blade thudded into the priest's shoulder, and the rune-etched dagger tumbled back down to the stone. A kick from the knight sent the engraved blade splashing into the shallows of the lake. Following the knife, his eyes alighted upon the slumped form of the knight he'd been seeking.

"No…" he muttered, his voice stricken.

He found himself involuntarily reading the tracks. The blonde knight had died facing the shallows, and it looked like the girl had actually been dragged from the water. He glanced at her again, and realized what he'd taken for the glowing of the symbols on the altar was in fact radiating from the girl. Her perfect blue eyes studied him, framed by flowing white hair that seemed impossibly long.

_Not a girl,_ he realized,_ A lady._

His eyes went wide.

_**The**__ Lady_

His eyes narrowed as they fell upon the remaining priest. Fleeing as fast as his voluminous robes would allow, the man began to chant. His hands moved in a series of eldritch gestures. Turning back, he thrust his hand out as the chanting reached a crescendo, and a ball of fire shot from his outstretched palm. It puffed into harmless sparks inches from the knight's helmed face. The momentum of the spray of sparks knocked the helm from his head, revealing short dark hair and piercing green eyes. A flicker of recognition turned the priest's knees to water, and he backed away shakily. The knight paced after him. Another spell conjured a bolt of arcing lightning, to the same result. Mere inches from the knight's unprotected face, the bolt dissipated into nothingness. The knight advanced until he was towering over the terrified man.

"Please." The priest sobbed. "Mercy!"

The knight clad in black paused, tilting his head. "Mercy?" His voice was pained, and he gestured to the body of the blonde knight that they had murdered. "I knew him. He and I joined the Order at the same time. We took up the Quest on the same night. Tovar, his name was. He was a good man; an honest, virtuous man. There was no evil in him. Not in the slightest. I was _proud_ to be his brother in the Order." His voice went as cold as a tomb. "What _mercy_ did you give to him?"

The priest clutched the holy symbol on the chain around his neck, muttering a prayer and backing into the shallows. The knight closed the distance like a lion stalking prey.

"If you wanted Mercy," His hand shot out, wrapping around the priest's throat and lifting him until his feet were dangling a foot above the water, "You should have killed me, and asked _him_. Tovar was a far more forgiving soul than I am."

"This is wrong! I am unarmed!" the priest gurgled as he was carried further out into the lake, the knight wading until he was hip-deep in the frigid water. "You cannot do this! We are the one true faith!"

"You used a knight's code to kill him. You would murder a goddess just to spite her. And you _**dare**_ to tell me what I can and cannot do? You really should suffer far more than this," The knight paused to calm himself, taking a deep breath, "but I am a knight, and there is a Lady present."

He plunged the priest under the frigid water, holding him at the bottom. His other fist cannoned down to smash into the man's stomach, causing a blast of pink-tinged bubbles to erupt from his mouth. The man bucked and kicked, frothing the water in the shallows, but the Knight's grip was like iron. After a minute, the kicking stopped, and the body went slack. After another minute, the knight lifted him from the water and hurled him over to land in a heap next to the pieces of the knife-thrower.

He sloshed from the water, ignoring the bone-aching cold to rush to the side of the stone slab. The Lady still lay there, serene and perfect as it was possible to be. His hands clamped around the shackle on her right wrist, exerting a slow pressure until the metal snapped. He made short work of the other three, but the Lady's form seemed adhered to the slab. Each time he tried to lift her, the runes glowed brighter.

"Hang on." He muttered to her. "No idea if this'll work."

She nodded sagely.

He loosened the grip on his aura, letting it expand in a slow creep outwards. The runes closest to him began to writhe and pulse, as if fighting to maintain their shape. Her hand over the shivering runes raised a few inches from the slab. He reached out to take the Lady's hand, but hesitated. It didn't feel right to touch her. She was a Goddess, after all.

"You've weakened the runes." She spoke, her tone haunting and melodic. "If you let your power out in a rush, they will be destroyed, but there will be a backlash after a moment."

He paused, running over the timing in his head. Suppressing his aura, he cast about for his discarded helmet. No use leaving his face exposed for this. Finding it lying back by where he'd left Bertellus, he donned it. The horse had bolted. He sighed as he jogged back to the altar. That would be its own ordeal.

"So they'll weaken for a moment, and then they'll…"

"Backlash." She finished with a calm nod. "I imagine it will be rather violent."

"You ready?" he asked, reaching out hesitantly to take her hand. She nodded again.

He let go completely, letting the power surge outward. The runes began to writhe, and he heaved the Goddess from the slab, wrapping his arms around her and spinning. The slab detonated, each rune blasting a sizeable crater into the stone where it had been inscribed. Stone shards rained against his armored back, knocking him forward. The two of them hit the ground heavily.

The radiant aura around her seemed to writhe like the runes, and he suppressed his power again. The headache flooded back into his head with a vengeance, and he gritted his teeth. She stood gracefully, barely seeming to move at all, and he found himself staring into the eyes of a being he hadn't believed existed.

"We'll talk about faith later." She said, seeming to read his mind. "Do what you need to. I'll tend to Tovar."

He nodded, stepping to the scene of the fight to begin unceremoniously heaping the bodies of the Sharn group. He recovered his three throwing knives and replaced them in their hidden sheaths. After a few minutes the bodies were piled some distance from the battle site, and the coin they had carried was stowed in one of his belt pouches. He paused as he regarded the holy pendants the priests had used to bind the Goddess.

He picked them up where they'd fallen; each a golden relief of the crossed bars of the Sharn Temple. Pacing back to the clearing, he cast his eyes upward to the night sky. The stars were almost incredibly bright, as if the night itself had been holding its breath for Tovar's ascension. He searched the sky for the stars that the Sharn Temple found sacred. Finding the constellation, he let his eyes narrow. Tensing his hands, he snapped the holy symbols in half.

_Figures,_ he thought darkly,_ they aren't even gold, just plated_.

Adjusting his grip, he snapped them again. He continued this until they were almost unrecognizable.

Casting the shattered pieces to the ground, he brought both hands up toward the star in a gesture that would make a murderer blush. His religious observances done, he turned and paced back toward where he'd left the Goddess.

Tovar's body was resting atop a massive pyre of deadwood. His face was serene, and his armor shimmered in the starlight. The wound on the back of his neck had been dressed, and the blood was gone from his clothes. He moved to stand beside her, bowing his head respectfully.

"Tovar," She said, a touch of sadness entering her ethereal tone. "I name you my Fallen Star. Your life is over, but your virtue and ideals were a beacon for all. May it forever be so."

"Rest, Brother." Drake said simply, stepping forward and resting a hand on Tovar's breastplate. "Your quest is done, your honor intact. I'll deliver your blade to the Order, and your brothers will know of your virtue."

The pyre lit, with seemingly no spark to do so.

Drake solemnly lifted the blade from where it rest, buckling it in place beside his own. He backed away from the growing flames and slumped to the ground, sitting and staring into the growing fire. After a few moments, the Lady came to stand beside him, staring into the flames. The silence between them lingered for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually her hand came to rest gently on his shoulder.

"Thank you for saving me, Knight." She said, her voice serene and seeming to come from several places at once.

"You're welcome." He said without looking away from the flames.

"They were posing as mercenaries hired by the city a day's ride north of here." She spoke coldly, without any emotion beyond a serene calm. "To kill a beast."

"Is it still alive?" his voice was equally emotionless.

"Tovar felled it. It was the final deed of his quest."

The silence stretched again.

"My name was Celryn," she said quietly, "When I was a mortal."

"Drake." He answered. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Ring a bell, does it?"

"My knights mention you constantly." She admitted. "Your name is always being whispered in my mind."

"They do?" he hid his surprise as best he could. "Why?"

"The young, headstrong ones want to face you." She explained. "They want to defeat a legend and they boast about how they'll give away the reward to help the poor and such. All the vanity of the young, it serves only their own pride."

"And the older ones?" he asked, breaking away from the fire and glancing up to her.

"Some want to face you, to test themselves. Others just want to meet you. I can hear one of them now." She clasped her hands as though in prayer, a deep and masculine voice seemed to come out of the air around them. The voice was refined and measured, but sounded tired.

"Lady of Grace, hear my prayer. Let me meet this man, who vexes your enemies so. Let me take the measure of him, and find him worthy or unworthy. Let me share a fire and hear the tales of this man who has seen too much death. Let him break bread with me and find some solace in a kindred spirit. I beg you, guide me to him."

Drake was at a loss for words. His mouth worked silently for a few moments before he found his voice again.

"I thought I was just feared."

"You forget that with age comes wisdom. You didn't think that everyone believed the Temple about you?" His silence betrayed his answer. She paused briefly before continuing. "That was Sir Zadakian."

"He's still alive?" Drake recognized the name from the tales of the order. He was a legend. He'd taken the quest up in his twenties and been a presence among the Order for decades. There was no name spoken with more reverence than his. He felt uncomfortable at the honor the ancient knight did him. "He must be eighty by now."

"Ninety two," She corrected, "Last month. He cannot fight as he once did, but still he travels, righting what wrongs he can. He has brought great honor to my Order."

"You haven't appeared to him yet?" he asked. "He hasn't impressed you?"

"The quest is different for each of my Knights," she explained. "Zadakian needs this purpose in his life. I will appear to him when his time is done, and tell him I have seen every step of his journey and it has filled me with pride. I will name him The Tireless. His life will end with the greatest sense of triumph any man has ever experienced."

Drake let the proclamation hang in the air, nodding his head in appreciation.

"Wait." He paused, eyes wide. "You hear every time one of us prays to you?"

"Yes." She said, without any emotion.

"So you heard…"

"Every word." She agreed. "My young knights pray to face a legend. My old knights pray to meet a legend. All the while the legend himself prays for relief from a headache."

"To be fair, it's a wicked headache," he muttered, with a sarcasm he didn't feel. He glanced down at his own armor, at the heraldry on his black tabard and the sword at his hip. "If they only knew."

"If only." She nodded, her eyes cold.

"So," He changed the subject awkwardly, studying her perfect features. "Tell me about Celryn."

There. Her eyes lost their radiance for what seemed like half an instant, and a look of surprise ghosted across her features before being absorbed by that supernatural calm again.

"What?" she asked.

"Tell me about your life before all of…" he waved his hand in a lazy circle indicating everything around them, "This."

She looked at him, the barest hint of discomfort in her posture.

"I can scarcely remember my life before ascending,"

"That was a lie." he chuckled. "Even with the calm and the grace you have tells. You remember your life?"

She was silent.

"All right," he sighed. "A deal, then?"

One of her eyebrows twitched, barely.

"Tell me your story, and name your price." He said as neutrally as he could.

"Do you know what causes your headaches?" she inquired coldly, almost clinically. He tensed, on guard for the first time since they'd started talking. After a long pause, he nodded. "Show me."

He sighed, screwing his eyes shut and letting his mental grip on his gift loosen. The pain faded, and the fire beside them flickered and dimmed. The sense of relief was immense, and he let out a sigh. He reached over and tossed a few more logs onto the fire, waiting for them to catch.

The aura of light around her pulsed erratically, snapping his attention back to the Goddess. Her radiant aura grew and shrank, as though fighting an invisible cage. She glowed brighter than the sun for a moment before groaning and collapsing to the ground. The light vanished with a blast of air. The force of it catapulted Drake back, rolling him through the grass. He came to his feet groggily, blinking the afterimages from his eyes. The area around the fire had been flattened, the long grass and reeds all blown down from a central point. He paced quickly back to where the goddess had been. She was prone, in the center of the blasted vegetation. She groaned as the glow suffusing her skin and eyes faded.

"Ugh. My head. What the hell was that?" The voice was groggy, but full of emotion. Nothing like the cold resonance the Goddess had shown earlier. She looked up at him, and he found himself staring down into the warm, brown eyes of a strikingly beautiful girl.

Her hair was shorter; curly, strawberry blonde locks framing a beautiful face. The gown that had been made of purest silk and gossamer was now a homespun dress of blue fabric. Her alabaster skin had darkened to a healthier tone. Apart from the shape of her face, she could have been a completely different person.

"Lady?" he asked.

"Drake?" her brow furrowed. Her hands clenched, each pulling a handful of damp grass from the ground. She paused, bringing up the clump of dirty grass and squeezing it. "Gods below," she swore, "I can _feel_ again!"

"Wha…" he was lost for words, trying to make sense of the very human girl in front of him.

"Your power is blocking most of mine." She explained, falling back to lie on the grass. She smiled contentedly. "This grass feels amazing."

She laid there for what seemed like an hour, breathing in the scent of the grass and sighing happily. He just stared down at her, still trying to wrap his head around what had happened. Eventually she sat up, an almost childlike delight in her eyes. Her voice snapped him out of his ponderings.

"So why'd you become one of my knights?"

"I'm _not_ a knight." He admitted with a sigh. He shifted the plates on his waist so he could sit beside her. "It's all just camouflage. I only do this to avoid being hunted. Nobody would think the man from all the horror stories was a Knight of the Way. I've broken almost every tenet of the order at least once."

"The order I had Artur create had only one rule;" she locked eyes with him, her face stern, "Protect the people."

"Haven't broken that one." He admitted, an awkward pause stretched before he changed the subject. "How'd you become a goddess?"

"I was just a novice priestess, capable of minor blessings, some sealing magic, and a few little cantrips. Nothing powerful. Then Artur and his knights found me, walking in the shallows. And you know the stories from there."

He nodded. "They made us all study them at the Order."

"Artur and his men went on to win that battle, and in my foolishness I made that grand show of blessing them." She sighed, sounding disappointed. "Do you know what I actually did? I gave them each a cup of water, and then I put a cooling charm on their armor, and another to slick the surfaces of their clothes, to keep blood from sticking to it. That was it. Through that entire battle, they never got too warm, and they looked radiant and pristine through all the bloodshed. That was all I did. All I really gave them was confidence."

"So what happened next?" he asked, turning to regard her face.

"Artur and his twelve knights destroyed an army of thousands, and the legend was born. Stories began to spread about the Goddess they had been blessed by. Shortly after that I started hearing whispers in my head," she admitted. "And then my magic became more powerful out of nowhere. It was terrifying."

"Whispers?" he asked, not following.

"It took me a few days to actually calm my mind enough to understand them. They were prayers." She paused. "People were praying to me, to the _Lady of the Lake_ for her blessing, to protect them as she had Artur. I couldn't shut them out, they were just a constant in my head. The headaches, and the sleepless nights, they were awful."

"I know that feeling."

"Then I started to change." She began hesitantly. "My hair straightened. My posture was always perfect. I spoke like a noble. Any water I touched could heal the sick. As the legend grew, my description changed from a peasant priestess they found near a lake, to an otherworldly beauty of matchless grace and mercy."

She paused, collecting her thoughts.

"As more and more people began to believe in me, I became less and less human. Their belief changed me. I didn't need to breathe anymore. Or sleep. Or eat. I could vanish into any body of water without even getting my toes wet. I could travel great distances in the blink of an eye. I became an actual goddess, and the Order of the Way was my last act before I lost myself to it completely. I was twenty when Artur and the knights first found me walking in the shallows. I'll be six hundred next month."

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak.

"I came to Artur in a dream. He was an old man, by now, and had spent his life in his pursuit of knightly perfection. I told him that he would build an Order of Knights like none the world had seen. Not noble, but humble. Not rich, but poor. Not to protect the country and the nobility from each other, but to protect the people that needed protecting, no matter the circumstance. Artur's knights became the first Knights of the Way, and when they each died, I appeared to them and gave them my blessing again, and so was born the Order of the Way and the Endless Quest."

"I'm sorry for making a mockery of your life's work." Drake said, and meant it. She shook her head.

"You did exactly what the Order was supposed to," she began. "Throw out all the pomp and grandiosity of knighthood, and just _**help people**_. I never wanted the Order of the Way to have traditions or stuffy old castles where old knights tell young ones how to live. Just for once I wanted the reality to match the fables, and when I gained all this power, I thought to make it happen."

"You succeeded." He nodded. "They do match the fables."

"Fifty years ago the Cult of Sharn became the Temple of Sharn. They seized power, and started destroying all the old faiths to help them dominate the people. I was harmless, so I wasn't a target. But now the Temple of Sharn has subjugated the entire continent, now it's the _Land _of Sharn." She almost spat the words. "With how horribly they treat the people, more and more of the common folk have been praying to me again in secret. And now this…" She gestured to the altar. "They could have actually killed me. Then who would watch over the people?"

"The knights?" Drake offered, half-seriously.

"There are two hundred and seventeen active knights in the Order." She said coldly. "Each of Sharn's five armies numbers above twenty thousand. Not counting their clandestine operatives." She gestured to the pile of bodies. "It'll only be a few years before the knights are wiped out and nobody is protecting the people anymore."

"I've broken an army with two hundred solid fighters before." He muttered. "Nothing is written in sto..."

A whisper of movement sounded behind them and Drake was on his feet in a heartbeat.

The priest he had drowned was pushing himself to his feet, his posture crooked, and his eyes bloodshot. He wasn't breathing. An unholy grin split his features and he took a single shambling step toward them. Then another. Drake's hand found the hilt of his sword, and he interposed himself between the corpse and the Goddess.

"He's possessed." The girl whispered, her eyes wide in pure terror.

"The problem with priests," the drowned corpse gurgled, the voice becoming deeper and more resonant than it had any right to be. "Is that a priest will follow any old voice in his head, no matter whether it comes from above, or below."

The body's eyes began to glow like a beacon fire, and the flesh around them blackened and smoked. The body threw its arms wide and combusted, the water from its drowning turned to vapor in an instant. Flames roared from the body, far too powerful to be natural, and the blackening flesh twisted and grew.

"So when that priest, who promised a voice in his head he'd kill a goddess…" the body was taller than Drake now, and its form swelled with muscle. The words were potent, shaking the ground with their power. "When that priest gets himself killed by some meddling false-knight, and I am denied my prize... What is a simple voice in the void to do?"

The flames snuffed out in an instant, and a body, black as midnight and radiating heat, was revealed. It hurt Drake's eyes to look at, an inherent _wrongness_ to it that made his head spin, but he forced himself to take the measure of his opponent. Drake was massive, but he barely reached the thing's ribcage, the feet terminated in cloven hooves, and fingers with too many joints were capped with vicious razored claws. A pair of batlike wings spread from its back, and a long tail snapped back and forth behind it, the barb at its tip dripping with venom. The face was a lean, cruel thing, the eyes and mouth glowing from within. A heat haze rippled around the inky black flesh as it took a step forward. Grass blackened and burned around its hooves.

"It is good to be back in this world." A cruel smile cracked the face, and the tail lashed impatiently. "It has been entirely too long."

Drake tried to make sense of what was happening. The priest was possessed. Possessed by what? A Demon? How was that possible? Demons were a myth. And even then, they couldn't leave the void.

_Stop thinking_.

How could this have happened? The goddess was real. The Order's dogma was all true. Demons existed. His head ached and his mind reeled as he tried to come to terms with what he was seeing.

_Stop thinking._

He shook his head to dispel the dizziness that looking at it seemed to generate, drawing his sword and letting his mind narrow to a single point of focus.

_Stop thinking and kill the damn thing_.

He charged, sprinting at the Demon and putting all his weight into an impaling strike. The blade slammed home to the hilt, and the creature roared in agony, its unnatural voice filling his mind as the note continued. Its chest began to heave around the sword blade, and the roar became a harsh grinding laugh. The metal in Drake's hands began to glow with heat, and he wrenched it free. It faded to a dull sheen again, and he brought it around in a renewed attack.

Hacking down with both hands, he carved a deep rent across the Demon's chest, continuing the attack without pause. His blade was a blur, moving like quicksilver to slash and hack several deep wounds across his opponent's form. He took one of its hands off, and it roared again, but the roar just ground into laughter like the last time. There was no blood. The wounds simply glowed from within, like molten metal. He could see no bones or muscles either.

The wings snapped open with a thunderclap, and Drake drew back, bringing his sword up to guard. A single mighty flap and the Demon catapulted back to land some fifty yards away. Smoke and thick blood began to seep from the wounds across its form, and from the stump of its wrist. As Drake watched, the wounds closed with startling speed, and the hand was replaced within a few seconds.

Drake charged, covering the distance quickly to bring a downward cut into the monster's shoulder. The blade crunched deep, and heat emanated from the wound with almost painful intensity. He wrenched the blade free, slamming another cleaving blow into the beast's chest. The toothy maw just split in what he took was a grin, and the beast's wings snapped open like a pair of unfurling sails again. It flew back to where their fight had begun, and the wounds smoked and closed again. It reached to the tree that the girl was sheltering under, snapping a huge branch off and dragging a claw across its own wrist. Blood, glowing with molten power, flowed from the wound, seeping down to coat the branch. Drake was sprinting now, powering through the weight of his armor to close the distance. The branch began to pulsate and shift, its form expanding and contracting until it resembled a large sword. The Demon slapped the flat of the blade against the tree, shaking the blood from it to reveal the burnished metal of its new weapon. The weapon was as tall as a man, with a wide blade of dark iron. Burning runes glowed from rents in the metal, and it seemed to pulse with the same heat as the Demon itself.

"And you've made her_ mortal _for me." It chuckled. "Thank you, boy."

The blade was raised above the Lady's trembling form, only to fall to the side, missing her by a fraction as Drake's sword lanced between the Demon's ribs. The knight slammed into the monster's side, knocking them both sprawling.

"I'm not finished with you," the knight growled, bringing his blade up into a guard.

The glowing, demonic sword slammed down with a roar. The force of the blow nearly took the blade from his hands, and he was smashed to his knees. It was titanic, like being hit by a battering ram, and Drake barely recovered before another blow came at him, and another, and another. He drew Tovar's sword and caught the next blow with two crossed blades, locking his opponent in place and feeling his muscles burn with the effort of it. The creature's breath smelled of old blood and death, and he gagged.

"You think to match my strength?" a voice like the roar of a volcano spat with disdain. "How childish."

The creature's other fist slammed into his chest, destroying his breastplate and shattering most of his ribs. His eyes went wide as he was sent hurtling back, the armor falling from him in red-hot pieces. He fell in a heap, at the foot of the tree, coughing blood and struggling to grasp what had happened. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. Every motion sent fresh spikes of agony through his chest. _So much power._ How could he fight something like that?

"A boy of only nineteen summers plays at being a knight and thinks to cross blades with me!?" that grinding, molten voice spoke again, the Demon paced a circle and spread its arms as though performing for an audience. "I, who have lived since the stars were young!"

His breath came in painful hikes, and he tried to stand. The voice of the Goddess came to his ears, chanting some kind of spell, and he fought to contain his power for a moment. His chest seemed to glow from within, and he felt his ribs being wrenched back into place. The glowing pieces of breastplate reformed a moment later, and the metal shone like new.

The wounds on the demon began to close, and he let his power loose again, stopping their healing, but also his own. He ground his teeth as the pain flooded back into his chest.

_I've fixed your armor, but your chest isn't healed._ The Lady's voice spoke hurriedly in his head. _Another hit like that and you'll die._

"Have it your way, boy." The demon laughed, its wings snapping to its back, folding against its spine. "Let us cross blades!"

It came at him, bringing the sword down in a murderous arc. Drake spun aside, feeling the heat of the blade singe his cheek. Tovar's blade crunched down to take the beast's sword arm off at the elbow. A whisper of movement sounded behind him, and he struck out on instinct, his own sword severing the barb from the whipping tail as it arced toward his neck. The Demon roared in agony, grabbing the young knight's cloak and hurling him away. Drake landed on his feet, barely, and sheathed Tovar's blade. He sprinted at the beast, sword trailing low behind him. He had to keep it from healing. He had to stay close. The Demon flexed the lengthening talons of its remaining hand, snarling at him.

"I will peel the flesh from your skull, _boy_." Its voice seethed. "You will suffer for _decades_ before I even _consider_ letting you..." A pair of throwing knives materialized in the beast's glowing eyes. It screeched, flailing its talons toward where Drake's charge would carry him.

The young knight dropped to his knees, his momentum sending him sliding past the beast. The talons aimed for his gut raked over his armored shoulder instead, carving blackened furrows in the metal. The knightly blade hacked out to take one of the demon's hooves off just above the ankle. The creature roared as it fell, but the young knight didn't give it time to recover. He leapt onto its back, driving the point of his sword down between the shoulder blades to pin it to the ground. The blind demon writhed like a pinned insect, battering Drake with its flailing wings, and began to rise. It pushed upwards with its remaining arm, pulling the blade from the ground for a moment before Tovar's sword slammed to the hilt in its back, joining Drake's and forcing it back down.

Planting a booted foot on the crossed hilts of the swords, the young knight dropped to one knee and clamped a gauntleted hand around the base of each wing. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, he tensed his shoulders and began to pull. The unearthly material didn't give, and he bunched his muscles, pushing to a standing position and hauling with all the strength he had. He felt the hissing burn of his gauntlets heating up, and his hands felt like they were being dipped in boiling oil. The joints began to creak and stretch, and the demon's roar raised to a keening howl. The pain in Drake's chest was incredible, and he let it fuel his anger.

With a roar, the knight tore the wings out of the Demon's back, heat and otherworldly light erupted from the terrible wounds to spray like blood in the night. The Demon's howls became a ragged scream as Drake hurled the wings aside and took hold of the swords again. He ground his teeth against the burnt agony of his hands and withdrew the blades, but not entirely. The Demon pushed itself to a kneeling position, and Drake cried out as the reformed barb of its tail embedded itself in his left shoulder. A hot numbing sensation began to spread from the wound, and he felt the muscles in his shoulder begin to go slack.

Drake slammed the red-hot swords home to the hilt again, twisting until the glowing tips erupted from the black-skinned abomination's sternum in a spray of unnatural light and heat. The demon roared, and Drake leaned in beside its head to speak through bloodied teeth.

"My name is Drake," he snarled. "_Remember it_."

The swords were torn out. Drake spun the blades, the hot metal sizzling in the morning air, and brought them inward in a scissoring arc. The shining steel hacked deeply into the creature's trunk-like neck. The second impact jarred Tovar's blade from his hand. The numbed heat had spread to his fingertips, and he let the limb fall to his side. All semblance of grace was abandoned as Drake slammed his own blade home again and again, carving into the unnatural, burning flesh. Four strikes later, the Demon's head rolled free, evaporating the dew from the grass as it spat voiceless curses into the sky. A vicious kick knocked the magma-hot body forward onto the ground.

"Next time bring friends." The swordsman muttered, wrenching the tail barb from his shoulder and spitting on the severed head.

There was a flash of light, and an unnatural wind swept out, stinking of blood and brimstone. The vortex swirled for several seconds, and the creature was gone. All that remained was the mutilated body of the drowned priest, Drake's throwing blades embedded in the dead man's eyes.

"That was incredible!" The mortal goddess beamed from behind him. He heard her light footfalls approaching and turned. His legs buckled. The world spun. He fell to his knees, slamming the point of his blade into the ground to keep himself upright. She caught him as he fell.

"I need to counteract the venom." She whispered urgently, lowering him to the ground and resting his head on her lap. "Don't die."

He tried to speak, but a burning sensation consumed his chest, and he felt his heart laboring to keep going. He ground his teeth and fought to contain his aura, the headache was nothing compared to the pain as the burning reached his heart. It skipped a beat, giving a labored _thump-thump_ after an uncomfortable interval. Then it skipped two. He felt a surge of some kind of force from her hands, and it lurched, laboring to beat with a healthy rhythm again.

It began skipping again, and he felt that surge of power again, pushing back the poison and aiding his fading heart. He felt the burning sensation being quenched, writhing around his form like a coiling serpent fleeing the healing energy.

It reached his head. A wave of burning agony blotted out his thoughts, filling his eyes with visions of torture and suffering. He saw cities burn, lovers tearing one another apart, children being slaughtered. Molten laughter echoed in his thoughts, and the _pain_… The pain was more than he'd ever felt, every fiber of his being burning with roaring agony.

He screamed, trying to force the visions from his head, and blacked out. The labored beating of his heart merged with the laughter of the Demon as he felt his control slip. He felt himself falling, slipping into dreams of fire and death.

.

…

…

…

.

"You'll probably want to wake up soon." Bryce's voice echoed in his ears. He felt, rather than saw, that ever-present smirk, and heard the crackle of a low campfire. "This could be interesting."

He snapped awake with a shudder. Pain roared through him, but the burning sensation of the venom had subsided.

"You're alive!" he heard a female voice speak from above him. "Thank the gods…"

He blinked to focus his eyes, and saw the Lady straddling him, her hands crossed over his chest. It was dark, and the two of them were in the shade of a huge tree. His armor was scattered around them and a small fire burned a few paces away.

"How long was I out?" the words formed without him even thinking them.

"Six hours." She sighed, her face gray with exhaustion.

"Why does my chest…" he gritted his teeth against the grinding pain of breathing. "…feel like that thing hit me again?"

"I had to break the rest of your ribs to keep your heart pumping." She broke eye contact, jumping off his lap to settle beside him. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He coughed painfully, pushing himself to a sitting position against the trunk of the tree.

"I don't know how, but you managed to fight off the poison." She admitted. "You are a wonder."

"Poisons never seem to hit me as hard as they should." He muttered with a shrug. The motion brought an agonized groan to his lips. Her hand pressed gently to his chest, the other reaching up to tap his forehead.

"Focus," her voice said soothingly.

He did so. Wrapping iron chains around his gift and pulling it inward. The pain rolled behind his temples, thudding with unwelcome familiarity.

Her hands began to glow again, and he felt a soothing coolness seep into his chest. On the rare occasion he'd let a witch close enough to heal him, it always felt like someone rummaging around in his insides. An unnatural, nauseating sensation that set his mind aching. This was like pouring cool water on a burn, and he sighed in relief as the bones mended.

The glow encompassing her hands flickered and faded, the brown eyes rolled back and she slumped down beside him. His arm curled protectively around her as he checked her pulse. Her heartbeat was still strong, she must have just exhausted herself. He tried to lift himself up, but pain flared through his chest, and he slumped back to the tree, seeing spots.

A rustling sounded in the brush a few paces away, and he cast about for his sword. It was out of reach. He slipped a hand under his belt to draw his last throwing knife, before glancing up to see what was approaching.

Bertellus stood toeing the ground nervously, not willing to cross the burnt patch of earth where the Demon had fallen. Drake sighed in relief and set the throwing blade aside. The horse just stared at the scorched crater, eyes wide.

"Bertellus." He whispered. "Here."

The panicked eyes snapped up, and he beckoned to the space beside him.

"Come here."

The horse didn't budge.

"Walk _around_ it," Drake whispered harshly, "damned horse."

The horse just stared blankly at him. He made a circling gesture with his hand. Nothing. He repeated the gesture a few more times, and Bertellus slowly began to inch his way around the scorched crater.

Eventually the massive horse reached Drake's side, dropping his head and nuzzling the burned palm of his raised hand.

"I'm glad you're okay too, buddy." Drake soothed it. "Now lie down. We're gonna be here for the night."

Bertellus obeyed without delay, flopping down onto the ground beside them and curling up for the night.

The tremor of the horse hitting the ground made the goddess stir beside him, and she cuddled closer into his bruised chest.

…..

He awoke with a groan, the pain of his battle flooding back to him. He was alone. The morning sun's rays were shining painfully bright into his face. He planted his hands, slowly attempting to push himself to his feet. The agony in his chest flared. After a few attempts he managed to haul himself up beside the tree.

Birds were singing, and the sounds of the forest seemed strangely loud.

He hobbled around the massive tree trunk, stopping when he saw what lay beyond. The Lady was sitting on the ground surrounded by wildlife. Deer, foxes, rabbits, and even a few wolves paced calmly around her. Birds alighted on her shoulders and outstretched hands. Bertellus stood calmly behind her, seeming almost… protective. A massive stag paced from the woods to join the gathering.

She was singing, and he was taken aback by the beauty of her voice.

The song was in a tongue he didn't know, but he could feel the emotions she was radiating. The simple joy of the morning sun, and a peaceful glade to wake in washed through him like a torrent, and he sighed contentedly.

At the sound of his sigh, the animals scattered, seeming to notice him for the first time. After a few moments of chaos, only Bertellus remained, gazing at him indifferently. The Lady's eyes lifted to his and she smiled. The gesture made his heart do a flip, an uncomfortable feeling in his battered state.

"Sorry." He dropped his gaze sheepishly, "Didn't mean to spook your audience."

"That thing…" She paused before nodding toward the scorched crater, "made this area evil. I was just cleansing it."

She held a hand out toward him and he gently lifted her to her feet.

"How's your chest?" she asked, still smiling.

"Sore." He admitted, rolling his shoulders slowly. He started to walk toward Bertellus.

"I'll see what I can…" she took a step to follow him and swayed. He caught her before she could fall.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know." She admitted. "I'm dizzy, and my legs are weak."

He lowered her to the ground gently, checking her vitals. Her pulse was still strong, but she was pale. There was no fever, though. He began wracking his brain, running through all the ailments he knew of.

Her stomach growled loudly, and he paused, blinking in disbelief.

He started to laugh. After a few moments her laughter joined his.

"I'm _hungry_." She said as if it were the most delightful thing in the world.

"My food is in the right saddlebag." He gestured to where Bertellus was standing. She raised a hand and the horse paced over to them, turning his right side to Drake.

"How did…" he began before stopping mid sentence. "Goddess. Right."

He rummaged through the saddlebag, drawing out the satchel of food and pausing his hand over the two bottles hidden at the bottom.

"Water or wine?" he asked. She raised her eyebrows theatrically. "The twelfth tenet, I know."

"Wine would be nice." She smiled.

He withdrew the bottle, a pair of cups, and a small knife.

Half an hour later, he'd eaten, and the Goddess had torn through the rest of his week's worth of rations.

"I've never seen someone enjoy salted beef, bland cheese and stale bread like that." He marveled.

"I haven't tasted food in five and a half centuries." She said with an almost childlike delight. "This was sublime. Thank you Drake."

"You're welcome… Lady," He nodded uncomfortably.

"Call me Cel," she said through another bite of meat. "If I'm gonna be a mortal for a while, I might as well get some mileage out of my actual name. You should too. And drop the formality. It doesn't suit you." He chuckled at this. "Five days, by the way." She said, looking pleased with herself.

"What?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You said to tell you my story, and then name my price." She said triumphantly. "You heard my story last night. My price is five days."

"Five days?" he repeated.

"You be my bodyguard for five days while I see the world. Think of it as an adventure." She paused, scratching her chin idly. "There's a city a day or so north of here. Let's go there."

"All right." He nodded. Cities made him edgy, but he could manage. "I'm protecting you as a knight?"

"No. Just as a swordsman." She hooked a thumb toward Bertellus. "You still carry your old gear don't you?"

He tensed. He'd never told anyone about that.

"You forget I can touch the minds of all my knights," she smirked. "I probably know more about you than you do."

"Then you know that when I get recognized, bad things tend to happen." He muttered. "You should call me Zeb when we're in public."

"I can influence the emotions of anyone I'm near." She waved a hand in a lazy circle. "Even through this. You can relax while you're with me. Be yourself for a while."

"How do you know about…?" he repeated the gesture. "I've been suppressing it since I joined the order. Even _I_ don't know what the hell it is."

"I can feel it." She answered, patting a hand on the ground. "I have to fight to get a read on you. I couldn't influence your emotions earlier. Reading a mind or changing emotions is usually like walking downhill for me. With you it's like wading through chest-high mud."

He eased to the ground beside her.

"What do you know?" she asked. "About your power?"

He was silent, and she let out an exasperated sigh.

"You realize I read your mind for two years as one of my knights." She narrowed her eyes at him playfully, "_**and**_ I watched you use it when you went through your first trial in the courtyard of the Citadel."

"You said reading me was difficult."

"And that made it… interesting." She admitted sheepishly. "I may have focused on you more than most."

"Fair enough," he muttered.

"So." She gestured for him to continue.

"So I know I can break spells." He admitted. "I know that magic doesn't work on me when my…" he hesitated.

"You sarcastically think of it as your _gift_." She deadpanned. "If that doesn't work, call it a power."

"My power." He conceded grudgingly. "My power can break spells. It gives me headaches. Holding it in makes them worse." He paused, "Much worse."

"Then why hold it in?" she asked.

"You already know." He narrowed his eyes.

"I want to hear it from you," she admitted.

"It seems to make the air a bit colder." He continued. "It can put out candles and small fires if I let it out too quickly."

"But that isn't why you hide it." She spoke, and he felt an odd sensation in the back of his mind.

"You in my head?" he asked uneasily, focusing on the sensation. He turned to look at her. Cel's eyes were screwed shut and she was tense.

"Can't fault me for finding this interesting." She whispered through clenched teeth. "I have no idea how you do this. I'm a _Goddess_. Do you have any idea how rare it is for me to _not _understand something? I want to know."

He chuckled softly, letting her pry for the moment.

"You have some serious mental blocks in here. Who was the redhead?"

The smirk fell from his face.

"Your conscience is terrifying." She muttered, sounding fascinated. "The Blackclad are like an enormous lead weight. How do you keep going with that dragging on your soul?"

"Get out of my head," he hissed through clenched teeth. "_**Now!**_"

"Sorr..." she never finished the word, a wall of anger like a tidal wave crashed against the link she had established in his mind, slamming her out of it. He stood, moving away from her and casting about the clearing, a stream of curses muttered under his breath like a mantra. She reached out tentatively, trying to reestablish the link. The anger she felt was intense. Attempting to forge the link was the mental equivalent dipping a hand in acid, and she gasped at the burn.

"I don't like people touching my things." He whispered harshly, shaking his head at the sensation. "That includes my thoughts."

"Sorry." She repeated. Drake didn't answer. He was repacking the saddlebags and gathering up the scattered pieces of his armor. She hugged her knees, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. She'd crossed a line and scared him off, the unfamiliar waves of emotion overwhelming her. When he left, she'd be trapped again; suspended in that half-life of seeing and knowing everything, hearing every prayer, watching every action, but not _feeling_ anything. It took everything she had to keep from sobbing. Staring at the ground, she fought the urge to try influencing his mind again. If she could just calm him, then…

No.

She'd done this. She'd have to live with it. Closing her eyes, Cel followed the sounds. He was gathering his thrown knives and setting everything as it had been when he'd ridden into the clearing the previous night. His movements were sharp, angry even. His footsteps were just shy of a stomp. After a few minutes he left the ground, and she heard a creak of leather. He'd mounted the horse and was slowly walking it toward her. The horse stopped. She heard him take a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Come on, Cel."

She glanced up. He was wearing a long black coat. A bandolier of throwing blades was slung across his chest and a long-bladed knife was sheathed beside each boot. The fury behind his eyes had vanished.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"You ate all my food." He smiled. "We need to leave now to get to an inn by nightfall. Let's go have your adventure."

"All right!" she grinned, wiping the beginnings of tears from her eyes. She took his hand and vaulted up into the saddle in front of him.

.

…

…

…

.

They rode for several hours, Cel taking in the scenery, and Drake just enjoying the companionable silence. Late in the afternoon, they stopped to let Bertellus rest. Cel was wandering the clearing, admiring every blade of grass and marveling at the feeling of the ground under her feet. Drake was lying in the shade of a massive tree, eyes shut as he dozed lightly.

He heard her footsteps approaching. She took in a breath to speak.

"I'm sor…"

"I'm sorry I snapped at you." He cut her off. "My scars are a personal thing for me," he raised a hand to tap the side of his head, "even the ones in here. They're the only thing nobody can take from me."

"You have so many." She muttered. "Someday there'll be nothing left. You'll just be _made_ of scars."

"You should see me without a shirt on." He chuckled, not opening his eyes. A pause began to stretch, and he spoke again. "I'm sorry, still. I was out of line. This past day has just been…" he paused and smiled bitterly, "Enlightening."

"I know you didn't believe in gods or demons." She nodded. "I guess it's a lot to take in. I'm still sorry for digging around in your head without permission."

"Apology accepted." He nodded, opening his eyes and stretching. He whistled for Bertellus. The horse finished grazing and trotted over to them. Drake checked his hooves and the tightness of the straps holding the saddle on, before nodding once more and lifting Cel into the saddle. Stepping up behind her, he reached for the reins, but Cel's hands took hold of them instead.

"Can I?" she asked.

"Knock yourself out." He nodded, his hands gently wrapping around her waist to steady her. He pressed his heels to the horse's flanks and she steered them toward the city.

.

The sun was low on the horizon when the city finally came into view; a gray blotch beginning to discolor the earth off in the distance. He opened his mouth to ask a question.

"You suppress magic." She cut him off as he tensed. "Completely. I figured I'd just say it up front this time."

"How is that possible?"

"I don't know." She admitted. "When I was pacing the clearing earlier I was measuring your range. Something like fifty feet, and the aura just ends. It isn't any weaker on the outskirts."

"You were in my head." He furrowed his brow, confused. "If I completely suppress magic, how can you still do that?"

"I don't know," she admitted again. "I barely can. Maybe as a Goddess, my powers are just an order of magnitude higher than anything mortal."

"Then how did I turn you…?" he trailed off.

"I don't know." She repeated a third time, waving her hand to indicate the area around them. "Maybe the prayers and beliefs that give me my powers can't get through this. Maybe fate just owed me one. I've never seen anything like your power before, so I honestly just don't know."

He sighed, digging his heels in and bringing Bertellus up to a canter.

"How's your chest?"

"Still sore." He admitted.

She leaned back into him, and he tightened his arms around her reflexively, keeping her steady. A cool, soothing feeling began spreading through his chest from the point of contact. He sighed in relief, feeling the tightness of the injuries fading, and relaxed.

"Better?" she asked him, half turning to lock eyes with him.

"Much." He nodded. Their faces were inches apart, her brown eyes boring into his. He broke the contact, shifting in the saddle and scanning the horizon. "How'd you do that without me suppressing my power?"

"I'm learning how to power through it." She said simply. "It's still difficult, though. If I were still mortal, it'd be impossible."

"Hmm." He nodded, completely out of his depth. He scanned the horizon before changing the subject. "So how do you want to do this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well we could stay at an inn for five nights," he shrugged. "We could stay at an inn for three nights and another for two. Four and one, you get the idea."

"How many inns are there in the city?" she asked, that childlike curiosity writ plain across her face again. The instant change in mood wrong-footed him for a moment, and the answer came slowly.

"Maybe two dozen?" he shrugged. "I've not actually been to this city, but most places this size are about that."

"Could we do a different inn each night?" she asked, her eyes alight with hope.

"All right." He chuckled. "You realize this is a mostly lawless city, right?"

"Then we can only improve it."

.

…

…

…

.

The city was shaped like a bull's-eye, a dirty misshapen circle that had started small and since sprawled out over the landscape. The central circle was protected by a twenty-foot stone wall. It housed the nobles' mansions, the local Church of Sharn, and the military headquarters. The middle ring housed the bulk of the population, the marketplaces, taverns and temples to the various gods. The outer ring was a run-down slum.

After entering the city and passing through the slums, Drake finally found a stable that passed his criteria. Stabling Bertellus for five days, he paid handsomely and made it clear to the stable-master in no uncertain terms what would happen if someone stole his horse.

Shortening the straps that connected the two heavy saddlebags, he hefted them over one shoulder, handing his backpack to Cel.

"We're taking everything?"

"I don't trust cities." He muttered.

"You don't seem to trust _anything_." She countered.

He conceded the point with a shrug. No point arguing with the truth. They strode out into the middle-ring of the city to find an Inn.

They passed through alleys and streets, eventually coming upon an evening market. The entire block was sprawling with people, all haggling or inspecting wares. The clamor was almost deafening. They passed a smoked meat stand, and Cel sighed happily at the scent.

Drake chuckled and withdrew a pair of copper coins from a hidden pocket in his coat, handing them to the vendor, he and Cel were each rewarded with a skewer of cooked meat.

Something caught Drake's eye off to the side of the market. He swore and turned sharply.

"We need to make a detour." He muttered, taking the meat in a single bite and tossing the wooden skewer aside.

"Why?"

He didn't answer, just weaving his way through the crowd as best he could, weighed down by the two satchels of armor. A few seconds later, the surging masses of people parted, and Cel saw what had caught his eye. A large stage, as though built for performing theater, was occupied by a small group of men and women, each clad in filthy scraps of clothing, each chained to the ground beside them. The far side of the stage was host to a large canvas pavilion, the inside dark and foreboding. She tore her eyes away and forced herself to regard the filthy forms standing on the edge of the stage.

The twelve slaves stood as though asleep, their eyes slightly glazed as they swayed gently. Occasionally one of them would glance at a particular person in the crowd before losing themselves to the torpor again.

"They show them off for a few hours before they open up the auctions," he said darkly as they reached the foot of the stage. "Wait here." Dropping the saddlebags, he jumped up onto the platform and began conversing with two of the men there. The look of the men made her skin crawl, and she fought down the urge to eavesdrop. After a few minutes of conversation, one of the men nodded and vanished into the pavilion. Several minutes later, a corpulent man in lavish silk clothes strode confidently from the pavilion, moving to converse with Drake. The argument went back and forth for a few minutes until the slaver raised his hands and paced away with a grin.

"He's gonna think about it." Drake said patiently.

"Think about what?" Cel had difficulty keeping the distaste from her voice. "We're going to free them?"

"There are too many eyes and ears here, so we're going to have to buy them first." He explained quietly. "I offered to buy his entire stock if I could have them now."

"Giving money to the slave trade?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't like paying them," he admitted, shouldering the saddlebags again. "But it's that or kill them. I don't mind killing slavers, but not in the middle of a crowded marketplace. We need a place to sleep tonight."

She nodded reluctantly. One of the traders beckoned Drake back up onto the stage, and they exchanged a few more terse words before he clasped the hand of the opulently dressed leader. Fishing through the saddlebags, he withdrew two bags of gold, handing them to the trader.

The man smiled widely and signaled to the guards to chain the twelve slaves together as several more were led out from within the pavilion. Within a matter of moments, he was handed the clean end of the chain and given his leave to take them. He tugged gently, and the small crowd of dazed slaves walked sluggishly in the direction he was pulling.

"Why don't they try to run?" she asked, drawing alongside him as the stage vanished into the crowd behind them.

"They drug them to keep them complacent." He hissed angrily. "He offered me some of the herbs to keep them like this, but I told him that wasn't necessary."

Cel was about to protest. If he was trying to impress her, buying slaves wasn't going to do it. She opened her mouth to comment, but noticed his knuckles were white around the chain he held. His jaw was clenched, too. She sent out a tentative probe and felt the wall of red anger behind his facade again. It wasn't directed at her this time, and she was able to establish a tentative link. No thought of recognition, no pride, he was just… angry. He hadn't even considered what she'd think about what he was doing. The realization stunned her. She was almost offended. What knight didn't care what the Goddess thought of his deeds?

Almost running into a man coming around a corner, she snapped back to reality. Her past thoughts circled in her head, and she realized she'd been almost… jealous. _ Jealous _that he'd done it for the sake of the deed itself. She felt a burning, hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach and shook her head with a smile. She was hungry again, and it was making her irritable. Sharing a small pulse of approving calm through their link, she spoke.

"So what's the plan?"

"I honestly didn't have one." He admitted reluctantly, the tension fading from his face as the empathy did its work. "I just had to do something."

"Where did you get that money?"

"The priests that tried to kill you," a smirk cracked his face for a moment. "The Temple of Sharn is actually footing the bill for your entire vacation."

She laughed then, a short bark of laughter that seemed almost spiteful. "Good." She nodded. "Then some good came of them in the end."

"Can you find them some clothes?" he asked, handing her another small pouch of coins. She pocketed it and closed her eyes, furrowing her brow as she fought to work through his power.

"There's an alley two buildings down." She said through her focus. "We should head there."

He led the shuffling group to it, and found himself staring down a cobbled alleyway. There was a trough of muddy rainwater in one corner, and a pile of filthy cloth and detritus occupied the opposite. A hunched, huddled form in a threadbare tunic sat beside the pile, shivering. Cel strode to him, handing him a few coins and gently laying her hand on the top of his head. The man stopped shivering and looked up to her, his eyes grateful. He stood and strode tiredly out of the alley.

Cel moved to the trough and gently placed her hand in the water, extending her fingers outward. The water changed instantly, becoming as clear as crystal. Then she moved to the pile, picking up the top piece. As soon as her hands touched it, the ragged piece of cloth became a pristine woolen tunic. The next piece became a pair of leggings, and she continued. Soon an entire pile of clean clothes had replaced the filthy shreds. Drake broke the silence.

"Clean yourselves up and get dressed." He said simply. "You're free."

"What?" one of the dazed slaves asked, seeming confused.

"Drink some water." Cel said, her tone soothing.

They slowly shuffled to the trough and each took a cupped handful of water. As soon as the drink touched their lips, the glazed, vacant look left their eyes. Those with obvious injuries began to heal almost instantly. They continued to drink, and Drake saw the wasted forms fill out to a healthy size again.

Once their thirst was slaked, they began to wash themselves, and took the clean clothes, sighing in relief at the warmth of the heavy cloth. All clean and looking renewed, they turned to regard Drake and Cel. The former was leaning against the wall of the alley, his arms crossed across his chest as he watched the entrance for trouble. Cel was beside him, watching the group with an almost divine patience. They seemed reluctant to approach the massive swordsman, but eventually one of the group, a woman in her middle years, found her voice.

"Why did you help us?" she asked, seemingly refusing to accept what had happened.

"Who are you?" one of the others asked almost instantly. The man had rapidly healing whip-scars decorating his back and shoulders. Drake turned to Cel, his question obvious. "Do we tell them?"

_Suppress your power._ Her voice came in his head. He did so without hesitation, and her inner radiance pulsed for a moment. The scene shifted slightly, before the voice came again. _Let it back out._

The crowd stood in stunned silence. It had only been a single heartbeat, but every single one of them had seen clearly; a Knight of the Way, his armor shining and pristine, and the Goddess, radiant and pure.

"We helped you because you needed our help." Cel said simply. "Now get dressed."

"M… My Lady…" one of the older women fell to her knees. "I prayed to you when they took us."

"And I heard your prayer, Leah." Cel answered with a warm smile. She moved to touch the iron collar around the woman's neck. The metal began to glow, a dull blue seeming to ripple across it and down the chain connecting her to the two on either side. "Go home to your children."

The blue aura flowed like a stream through the chain until the entire group of collars was similarly radiant. As one, they fell from the necks of the slaves, settling down into the palms of their hands and shrinking. The radiant metal grew smaller and smaller, and the glow began to fade. The chains vanished in a puff of mist, and the group stared in rapt fascination as the metal in their hands slowly became two golden coins.

"This will be enough to get each of you home." Cel said instructively. "Know that I am watching, and should you tread a dark path, the chains will find you again."

"Thank you my lady." The one called Leah was weeping now, tears of joy running freely down her cheeks. She moved to Drake and hugged him tightly. "And thank you, sir knight!" she paced out of the alley and vanished into the throng of people. One by one, the others all followed her lead, thanking them and vanishing out into the city to find their old lives again.

"That was a good start to our stay here." Drake muttered. "I feel…"

"Contented?" Cel finished. "Something tells me that this isn't the first time you've done that."

"Usually it's a little more clandestine," he conceded, "Or just a _lot_ bloodier. I tend to focus more on punishing the slavers."

She nodded, and then swayed. He stepped in and caught her before she fell.

"Again?" she muttered angrily, slumping against his chest. "I used too much power. I need to eat something."

He supported her weight and led her to the nearest inn, a ragged sign swayed above the doorway, lit by braziers from underneath.

_The Dancing Dragon_

He fought a smile when he saw the painted dragon on the sign. Dragons always had that effect on him, a childlike delight forming for half a second in his mind.

"It's where your name came from." Cel whispered. "Did you know that?"

"What?" he asked, going tense.

"The ones you grew up with," she paused, her eyes screwed shut in effort. "I can't see their faces, but they named you Drake because you never shut up about Dragons when you were little."

"Should you be using more magic when you're this worn out."

"It's rare, but when I was a mortal sometimes I'd get sudden bursts of insight from the past," she explained, "Rarer still, the future. This is the first glimpse I've gotten since we met."

He paused, savoring the piece of information like it was a priceless gem. They reached the open doors of the Inn. The familiar clamor of drinking men and women reached their ears, and Drake steadied Cel, letting her walk on her own. Showing weakness in a new place would make them a target.

The innkeeper hobbled from behind the bar, his weight supported on a gnarled cane. He was thin, his gray hair cut short, and a week's worth of stubble on his jaw. He glowered at them like they had just insulted him and raised his eyebrows as if waiting for a challenge.

"We'd like a room." Drake said, cheerfully.

The limping man's eyes fell to the swords on Drake's hips, and then trailed down to the knives in his boots.

"We're full." He snapped.

"He's my bodyguard." Cel explained, standing shakily on her own.

"Well lah-dee-dah." The innkeeper cut her off. "Good for you. You think you can just flash a pair of pretty eyes and get a room? I said we're full."

"We have money," Drake began, "I'm sure…"

"How long has your leg been bothering you?" Cel cut him off. He saw her shoulders tense slightly, and the innkeeper's expression seemed to soften. The old man glanced sidelong at Drake.

"Who is this girl?"

"She's a healer," Drake said simply. "Got into an argument with a cleric of Sharn the other day and he threatened to kill her, so she hired me."

"Fifteen years." The man sighed, turning back to Cel. "Broke it when I had to jump out of a burning barn, saving my little ones." The old man nodded toward two of the serving girls. "Damned apothecary didn't set the bone right, so I've been in pain ever since."

Cel's hands traced a small pattern in the air behind her back. The innkeeper relaxed further, his eyes taking on a dreamy expression.

"I might be able to help you." She spoke softly, not letting her words carry to the nearby patrons. "Do you have somewhere we could be alone for the treatment?"

The man nodded as if dazed and led them to a small room attached to the kitchens. He sat down in a rickety old rocking chair and rolled his pant-leg up, showing the misshapen mass of his right knee.

"Fetch me a bowl of water from the kitchen," she ordered Drake.

He raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told, returning with it a few moments later.

She took the bowl, holding her hands over it and chanting a few syllables in a language Drake didn't understand. After a few rhythmic sounding verses, she dipped her hands into the bowl, and they began to glow. The light slowly faded into the water, leaving it shimmering and radiant.

"Drink."

The old man did so, but the glazed look faded from his eyes halfway through the water. His brow furrowed.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "How did you get back here?" He heaved himself from the chair, taking up his cane like a club and brandishing it threateningly. He took a few faltering steps forward.

Cel stepped back, her eyes widening in alarm as her legs buckled. Drake caught her, turning to put himself between the innkeeper and the girl and clenching a fist to end the situation if need be.

"I'll call the watch. I'll see you thrown in jail for…" he stopped, his eyes widening. He took another step, staring at his leg. He shifted his weight to it, and jumped once. "My leg…" he muttered, tears forming in his eyes. A wide smile split his face, and he walked a circle around the room. He glanced at the two of them. "It works. Did you do this?"

"She did." Drake nodded toward Cel. The girl was pale, and nodded exhaustedly.

"How?" he asked in disbelief. "I've seen dozens of healers and they all told me the bone was too malformed."

"She's a bit of a special case." Drake chuckled. "I'd recommend you still use the cane for show for a while. Slowly get better. So your regulars don't get spooked."

The old man nodded, stamping his foot experimentally. The smile seemed stuck on his face.

"How can I repay you for this?" he asked in disbelief. Drake fished a few silver coins from his belt pouch and handed them to the man with a smile.

"We'd like a room, please."

.

An hour later, after splitting a meal that would have fed at least four people, they were settling into their modest room. A single large bed dominated the space, with a stone fireplace providing heat. Drake sat upon the bed, in the process of unlacing his boots.

"Can I ask you a question?" she seemed hesitant, "about earlier, with the slaves."

"Sure."

"If that redhead I saw in your thoughts had been on the block." She winced as she saw him tense, his hands curling into fists and his jaw clenching. "Would you still have freed them all?"

"Yes." He didn't hesitate, unclenching his fists and setting to work on the second boot. "I would have."

She fought not to show her tension as she sent a probing touch into his mind. He'd felt when she read his thoughts, so she tried something new. She forged a link between them, so she would feel what he felt. Maybe without an intrusion, he wouldn't know. The empathic bond took hold, and she kept her face impassive.

_Angry. Not the hot anger of the moment, but the cold seethe of a past betrayal._

"Why?" she pressed.

"What do you mean, why?"

_Baffled. Irritated._

"Why save her?"

He sighed.

_Resigned. Disappointed. Tired._

"If I only uphold my values for people I like," he trailed off for a moment, "then what are they actually worth?"

_Resentment. Defiance._

"Being virtuous doesn't really prove anything when it's _convenient_. The test comes when it's the last thing you want to do. I hate her. To the soles of my boots, I hate that girl. But yes." He paused, his shoulders slumping. "I'd save her. Then I'd tell her to get the fuck away from me." The cold burn of betrayal still flickered in his mind, like a candle in a dark room. "Can we be done talking about this now?"

"Okay," she nodded, her own shoulders slumping as the empathic link did its work. The silence stretched and she let the connection flicker and fade. Cel began to chant and trace lines in the air with one of her hands.

"What are you doing?" he asked, leaning forward to try and discern some detail of the spell. A slight glow began to radiate from her palm, and she gritted her teeth to maintain it through his aura. Without ceremony, she slapped the palm to his forehead, and he blinked.

"What the hell was that for?" he asked.

"Testing a theory." She bit her lip, studying his face. The glow had transferred to his forehead, and after a moment it sank into the flesh and vanished. All tension faded from his features, and he relaxed, flopping back onto the bed.

"How did you do that?" he asked through a sigh of relief.

"Headache gone?"

"Completely." He nodded dreamily.

"Let's get some sleep," she said simply, sliding into the bed beside him and drawing the blankets up.

"So if I'd have said no, you'd have left my head hurting." He muttered, more to himself than her. She tensed slightly.

"Pretty much," she admitted after a moment.

"Heh." He chuckled. His eyelids were getting heavy, the soporific effects of the spell finally breaching his defenses. He smiled; the first genuine smile that she'd seen from him. "You've got a spiteful streak in you, Cel. I like that."

He nodded off, barely feeling her cuddle in beside him again.

.

…

…

…

.

He awoke with a start, feeling the dream slipping away before he could grasp what it had been about. He blinked groggily, sitting up. Cel was gone. Fifty feet, she'd said. She was probably downstairs, then. Unless he'd scared her off somehow. He slapped a hand to the side of his face, attempting to shake off the sluggishness of waking up. The feel of the stubble on his jaw made him shake his head.

He stood and stretched, feeling the pain in his chest, almost nonexistent now. His headache was back, though. Standing and moving to his saddlebags, he withdrew the iron hand-weights he'd had since before the Blackclad and began moving through the practiced motions of his morning routine.

An hour later, cleanly shaven and in clean clothes, he strode down into the tavern. The morning light was shining through the double doors, illuminating the mostly empty dining room. A small crowd had formed in one corner.

Cel was surrounded by children and several adults, all of them staring in rapt fascination as she told them stories of knights and monsters. Stories of the old gods, and the beginnings of the world were absorbed with the wide-eyed fascination that Cel herself had shown at the wider world just the day before.

Drake found a smile tugging on his lip as he sat down at the bar. The bartender was whistling cheerfully and cleaning mugs with a wet cloth.

"You slept late." The Innkeeper observed. "She tire you out?"

"You're awfully spry." Drake deadpanned with a look that could scare off a bear.

"Enjoying my newfound mobility." The old man grinned. "You two make a good couple."

Drake smiled ruefully. "We aren't a couple. I'm a Knight of the Way, and she is the Goddess herself." The innkeeper laughed, and Drake's smile became sad. "It's great that you think I'm exaggerating, but she's beyond my reach."

"She barely goes a minute without glancing up to see if you've come down yet." The man gestured to her. Drake followed the gesture and, as if on cue, Cel glanced up to him. She smiled when their eyes met, and Drake felt his breath catch in his throat.

"That…" the innkeeper continued, "was not a goddess looking at a knight. That was a beautiful girl looking at a strong boy."

"Shut up and get me a drink."

.

That night, as they sat in the next inn finishing their dinner, Drake extended his hand. He took a deep breath, drawing his power inward for half a second before letting it quickly flood out and extinguish the candles lining the table. The fireplace sputtered, but kept burning. After a moment, he took a small piece of tinder to it, and used it to relight the candles.

"If I suppress magic," he began, sitting back down, "why does it work on fire?"

"This isn't the first time humanity has spread across the world. Magic originally just came from the world under us. Humans consumed it, but couldn't use it." She began, pouring them each a glass of water.

"More stories for the kids?" he asked with a smile.

"This is the grown-up version." She returned the smile, clinking her glass to his.

"Cities of millions of people, buildings of metal and stone that reached the clouds, they built incredible things." Drake shuddered at the idea of a city that size. "But most impressive were their weapons."

He arched an eyebrow.

"They built weapons that could destroy an entire city from the other side of the world." She fairly spat the words. "They created new _diseases_ just to use as weapons."

"The threat of the weapons alone kept a tense peace for centuries, and the overpopulation drained the magic so much that the planet nearly died. But eventually the magic came back. The world under our feet endured so much that it had became _accustomed_ to it. It adapted. It began generating enough magic to offset the drain of mankind, the world was slowly coming back to life, but then something happened."

"They used the weapons." his tone was solemn.

"Humanity was all but wiped out," she paused, "from twenty billion people to _thirty seven_ in less than a week."

"Twenty billion?" he muttered. "I don't know that high."

"Twenty billion crowns would be the bounty for_**twenty**__**thousand**__ of you, _caughtalive." she explained.

"I can't…" His eyes went wide. "I can't even wrap my head around that number.

"I know." She nodded. "The thirty seven who lived were left with a barren wasteland of a world. But the bigger problem was the magic. The world was still generating enough magic to offset the billions of people who had lived before. The ground split. The continents shifted and collided. Rifts to the void tore open all across the landscape. Demons were roaming the wasteland. Mountains grew and collapsed overnight. Rivers burned, volcanoes froze."

"Sounds like hell." He refilled their cups.

"It basically was." She nodded, accepting another glass.

"So how'd they survive?"

"They learned to use the magic." She gestured to the ground. "The twenty five that were still alive by then found a way to tap into the world and channel the energy to whatever they put their minds to. They became beings of pure magic, their power only limited by their imaginations. They spent hundreds of years banishing the armies of demons back to the void, but the war took its toll. Every time one of them fell, the others became that much more powerful. Once the war had been won, they put their powers to work rebuilding and stabilizing the world. They created the forests, the oceans, the whole world we know."

He opened his mouth to ask a question, but she cut him off.

"I'm getting to why you can put out fire." She nodded. "Just let me talk. It's the first time I've ever been able to actually _tell someone_ this story."

"Fair enough."

"After rebuilding nature, they realized that the world was still producing too much magic for them to spend. They imbued magic into the trees, the waters, the animals. Then they imbued magic into all of the elements; fire, lightning, water, and so on. But it still wasn't enough."

"How'd they fix it?" he asked.

"They brought back humanity." She explained. "Not nearly enough to destroy everything again, just to regulate the flow of magic. They watched over humanity, some of them even took their old forms and walked among mankind as Sages and Mystics. The stories they told of their war, and their brothers and sisters remaking the world became the first legends, and they were given a name."

"The Old Gods," he realized.

"The Old Gods were the humans who survived the cataclysm, who ascended and created the world as it is now. The reason we can do such extraordinary things is that everything that now exists has the spark of magic within it from when the Old Gods remade the world. That magic has almost limitless potential."

She took a deep breath before continuing.

"The reason you defeated an army of fifteen thousand with only two hundred mercenaries when you were barely seventeen summers old," she gestured to herself. "The reason a priestess from a worthless little town became a goddess, is because when the Old Gods remade the world, they remade the laws of the world too." Her words were becoming more passionate. "We live in a time of magic and legends, because the Old Gods lived in a world of the mundane and humanity destroyed itself in its despair. When you told the Blackclad that they had no limits, you weren't lying. The Old Gods gave us a world where some of us can change our fates through sheer force of will alone, but now we have the Temple of Sharn teaching the people that they have no power. They teach that man is a slave to fate, and that they are going to burn in the abyss _unless _they give all their prayer, and by extension their magic, to the Temple of Sharn. For lack of a better term, they're turning the continent into a giant farm, a power source."

"So the reason I can extinguish fires is that fires are innately magical?" he changed the subject, trying to rein in his anger.

"Everything is, technically." She nodded. "But fires are unprotected."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Magic within a body is protected by the body itself." She explained. "By a process I don't really understand without going full-goddess again. But fire and lightning and such aren't contained in anything, so you can affect them."

"So I suppress any magic not inside a body?"

"As far as I can see, yes."

"Hmm." He muttered, his mind still reeling. "You realize this is a lot to take in."

"I know." She nodded. "You'll be lucky if you remember half of this. But you should also realize that knowing these things and not being able to tell anyone is like having a splinter in the back of my mind."

He raised a goblet, but paused.

"So everything has a spark of magic in it?" He asked.

"Everything," She nodded, "living or not."

"Even me?" he didn't know where the question came from, but felt the need to voice it nonetheless. An awkward silence stretched.

"No." she answered finally. "I don't feel any magic in you. That's why you get headaches. The fact that you can even survive it is a miracle. With how well you suppress energy and magic, your power should have completely extinguished your neural electricity, or suppressed your body heat into hypothermia."

"So…" He blinked, completely lost. "My neural electricity…" he struggled around the unfamiliar words. "Is why I get headaches?"

"No." she shook her head. "Sorry, I'm walking circles around the point."

"Yes." He agreed. "You are."

"You get headaches because deep down, your body knows that it _should_ have that spark of magic. So it's like an addict in withdrawal. When you hold it in, the aura is concentrated in your head, so that's where the pain manifests. Your headaches go away for a while after you've been hit with a spell, don't they?"

He'd never made that connection before. As they locked eyes, she gave a knowing nod.

"That was the smack to the head you gave me last night…" he realized.

"That spell was just a mild sedative."

He was silent for a long while, shifting uncomfortably at the table. He nervously changed the subject again. "So we live in a world where amazing stuff happens because the Old Gods didn't want us living the same shitty life they did?"

"More or less." She nodded. The silence stretched again, and even without a link she could see the turmoil behind his eyes.

"You okay?" she asked after a few minutes. "Want to go for a walk or something?"

"Just trying to come to terms with it." He spoke, barely above a whisper. "It's a lot to wrap my head around."

"You're feeling cooped up." She said with a smile.

"How did…?"

"You've been living on the road all your life," she observed. "Cities make you nervous, _and_ you're coming to grips with your own power,_ and_ the fact that now you're the only mortal who knows how the world was born."

His shoulders slumped in defeat.

"You can read me like a damn book." He shook his head ruefully and smiled. "A walk would be wonderful."

.

They strode in silence, Drake enjoying the lack of a roof over his head, and Cel looking further, to the stars. Eventually they reached the edge of the slums, and Cel paused to heal a man with rheumy eyes. They continued, finding the sick and needy and giving them what help they could. By the end, Drake's pockets were empty, and Cel was exhausted. They turned back toward their inn and began the slow trek back. When they reached an empty street, Drake paused and spoke.

"Can I make a potentially offensive point?"

"What?"

"Yesterday we freed the slaves, you healed the innkeeper, you got rid of my headache and gave me the best sleep I've had in a long time." He stopped walking. "Today we spent from dawn til dusk healing and feeding the sick in the slums."

He paused, unsure of how to continue. She read his indecision.

"Just be blunt."

"If you're going to spend your entire time as a mortal doing Goddess stuff, what's the point?"

"What?" her tone showed her irritation.

He raised his hands to placate her. "I'm not saying it isn't worth…"

"How dare you." She snapped, her words a harsh whisper. "How dare you tell me to put aside the suffering of these people just to…"

"I know the feeling." He cut her off softly.

The rage drained from her face, and her shoulders slumped sadly.

"No you don't."

"Since you have power, you feel that it's wrong of you not to use that power to help everyone. Believe me, I know that feeling better than most. It's the reason I actually became a knight. I had no idea how strong I was until that siege. When you're stronger than the people around you, you end up feeling responsible for them. Every time something happens to them, if you could have prevented it, it becomes _your _fault. If only you'd been quicker, or smarter, or stronger. It becomes a personal failing every time one slips through your fingers."

He sighed, the admission taking a lot out of him.

"But you can heal the sick more effectively as a Goddess, and I can protect the innocent better as a knight. If you're only going to be mortal for a few more days, you need to _**live**_ those few days. Not spend them on everyone else." He locked eyes with her and saw the shimmer of tears in hers. "This is the twelfth time _today_ you've been so exhausted you can barely stand. Five days to yourself after five centuries of protecting the people _isn't _greedy. It isn't selfish. It's not a personal failing that you're too exhausted to do more." He gestured toward the slums. "You've already done more for these people than anyone else_ ever_ has."

"It _is _selfish." She challenged. "To put myself before the people who are suffering."

"You want to talk about selfish?" he asked. "Putting yourself before the people who are suffering?" She was silent, boring into his soul with those warm brown eyes. "The bounty on my head could give every man, woman and child in this city five hundred gold coins." He paused to enunciate the next three words. "Every. Single. Person. I could feed, clothe, and house a city ten times this size for the rest of their lives. But I won't."

She was silent, staring into his eyes.

"Is it selfish that I won't?" he asked, his tone becoming irritated. "You're _damn_ right it is. It weighs on my conscience like the Blackclad do, but I'll fight it to my dying breath. Do you know why?" he asked, locking eyes with her.

She shook her head, taken aback by the strength of his words.

"Pride," he sighed. "I hate giving up. I hate it more than I hate the Temple, more than I hate that girl you saw in my memories. More than anything, _I hate giving up_." He sighed, grinding his teeth and speaking in a harsh whisper. "Is it selfish that I'm not willing to give myself up for torture and death when it could feed all the hungry in Sharn for a year? Yes. The fact that I'm even_ alive _is incredibly selfish at this point."

He let the silence linger a moment, taking a deep breath to quell the anger in his words.

"But being selfish doesn't make you evil." He muttered sadly. "You wanting a few days to yourself, me wanting to live, these aren't some great crimes against humanity. They're just… human."

Tears were falling freely down her cheeks now. She looked up at him, her lip trembling. He took a deep breath before continuing.

"You and I are the same. We've each been forced into a life of protecting the people." His words were still passionate. "We don't _like_ what we've become. It is fulfilling sometimes, but most times it just hurts." His voice was rising, his tone becoming angry. "It hurts watching the world suffer because we aren't strong enough to stop it, but we still try. We do it because we're stubborn. We do it because we're proud. But more than any of that, we do it because we're good at it and _**someone has to!**_"

He practically shouted the last words, and several heads further up the street turned to regard the pair. He sighed, calming himself and unclenching his fists. She didn't respond, tears falling freely down her cheeks.

"You're a goddess." He paused. "I'm a killer. You protect the innocent, I punish the guilty." He stopped, dropping his voice to barely above a whisper. "We couldn't be less alike in our methods, but we're two sides of the same coin. We're just running ourselves raw trying to fix this miserable chunk of the world in whatever tiny way we can."

She grabbed the front of his shirt, clenching a fistful of the black fabric. Her head slumped forward, tears glistening on her cheeks. His eyes screwed shut in anticipation of the hit. He'd just compared his history of violence and bloodshed to the goddess of mercy and grace. He had this coming. In his stress, he fell into what he knew.

_Right hand in his shirt meant left fist. Height difference meant an upward hit. Lack of combat experience meant she'd probably aim for the eye or nose, not the jaw._ He processed this in a split-second, tensing for the coming punch: a straight left to his right eye. He'd have to turn his head a fraction so she wouldn't break his nose.

Her other hand clenched the fabric of his shirt, and his eyes snapped open as she pulled him down.

Their lips met, and he froze. After a moment, his eyes drifted shut and he wrapped his arms around her. He returned the kiss, feeling the passion he'd felt at the earlier words returning. Eventually they broke contact, each breathing heavily. He was about to speak when she buried her face in his shirt.

"You're the first person in five hundred years to actually understand me." She whispered into his chest. "The first to talk to me as a person and not an ideal, and to know how much this path hurts." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I don't like what I am. Someone needs to watch over the people, but you're right." She smiled bitterly. "I blame myself for everything. Every plague, every murder, every single thing I can't prevent. And it all hurts so much."

Her arms slipped inside his coat, wrapping around his chest and hugging him tightly.

"You met me _yesterday_, and you know me." She mumbled, shaking her head in disbelief. "You actually _know_, and you're as screwed up as I am. I want to spend what time I have with you, nobody else."

His arms wrapped around her and he hugged her with equal force. They held it for what seemed like an hour, both just enjoying the closeness of a kindred spirit. As he loosened his grip, Drake heard a whisper of movement behind him and cursed under his breath.

"Do you mind?" he asked loudly. "We were having a moment."

Four men had appeared, forming a loose semicircle as they seemed to solidify from the shadows in the alley. Three carried long knives, the last one, the youngest, carried a wooden club. Cloaked and hooded, they stayed out of reach, barely moving.

_The boy with the club._ Cel whispered into his mind, her eyes flashing. _He's the only one who is redeemable. Don't kill him. The rest are too far gone._

_You could read them that quickly?_ He thought back. She nodded into his chest. _Read me, then. Focus on combat. I'm going to protect you, but that should teach you how to move if one of them gets past me._

He released her, wiping the tears from her cheeks and striding to the center of the group of four. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders, suppressing his power and feeling the contact with Cel in the back of his head. His confidence seemed to relax her, and he brought to mind all the fights he'd been unarmed against men with knives. He turned around, addressing the four men.

"Any odds we can keep the lady out of this?"

No response. He kept thinking about how he'd take them, how to deflect thrusts and cuts, how to move. He let the silence stretch until he felt the tension rising, almost a minute, then broke it.

"All right, then. How's this?" Drake paused, cracking his neck. All the mirth vanished from his voice as he swept his power out, putting a chill down their spines. "Touch her, and you die _slow_."

Nobody moved for a few seconds, his opponents seeming to size him up. At some unspoken signal, one of the knife-bearers blurred toward Cel. Drake vanished, moving just as quickly to appear behind the man. Clamping a massive hand around the back of his neck, he snarled a single word.

"_**No**_."

He lifted the man from the ground and swung him toward the others coming in behind him. One wasn't quick enough to avoid the impact. They collided badly, collapsing to the ground. He brought up his other arm on reflex, turning aside the blade from the one who was still standing. The tip of the dagger snagged in the links of Drake's coat, and his hand shot out, wrapping around the wielder's throat and crushing it. The one who had gone for Cel rolled on the ground, burying his knife in Drake's calf. The swordsman snarled.

"Drake!" Cel cried out. The hooded figures hesitated at the name. The massive swordsman seized the pause, dropping to his knees and bringing both fists down like a sledgehammer. The impact was titanic, cracking the cobblestone under the man who had stabbed him and leaving him choking on his own blood.

_That's two._ He thought. _Where's the third?_

Drake turned to Cel, just in time for the boy with the club to take a swing at her. She weaved aside expertly. Her form was perfect, and she whirled around to bring an elbow into the boy's nose with a sharp crack. He dropped without a sound, and Drake felt a surge of pride. A shadow appeared behind Cel, raising a knife. He shot a hand forward, the throwing blade taking a lock of her hair as it whispered past her ear. It thudded into the man's throat, alerting her.

She spun, catching the wrist holding the knife as it arced down in a clumsy swing. Shifting her weight, she threw the man over her shoulder. He landed and began thrashing, attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his throat. After a short time the thrashing came to a stop, and the entire alley went as silent as a tomb.

The silence shattered as Drake put weight on his injured leg. A string of expletives left his mouth unbidden as Cel ran over to him. He wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She said, slipping her arms into his coat and squeezing him. "Your leg." She began, easing him down to a sitting position and examining the knife jutting rudely from his leg. The long blade had punched through the calf muscle to emerge from the other side, but had missed the bone and the major artery.

"I've had worse." He chuckled painfully, shifting his weight to take pressure off the muscle. "You did great."

She gave him a weak smile, gently grasping the hilt of the knife. He suppressed his power and ground his teeth as a blue glow began to flow down the knife and into his leg. She began to slowly withdraw it, and he felt the flesh of his leg closing as the tip of the blade slowly vanished into it again. As the blade came free, he felt the wound close completely. The blood around the wound vanished, and the tear in the fabric even closed.

She began to glow from within, and her eyes started to shift. He let his power out, snapping her back to her mortal self. The force of the transformation winded her, and she collapsed forward onto his lap.

"Why'd you do that?" she asked. "Your leg isn't fully healed."

"I didn't want you to lose yourself again." He muttered sheepishly, avoiding eye contact. "I thought you might… forget."

"That's sweet." She smiled, resting her forehead on his. "It doesn't work that way, but thank you."

He let his eyes drift shut, enjoying the simple contact.

"This is romantic," she muttered through her smile. "But we could just as easily do this at the inn."

"Agreed." He nodded. "Help me up."

She did so, setting his arm over her shoulders and helping him gather his throwing blades. After that, she lifted the knife that had wounded him, taking the sheath and belt and looping them around her waist. They stood, and began limping back to the inn. The damaged muscle in his leg slowed them considerably, and Drake was grinding his teeth in impatience less than halfway through. Eventually they reached it, and she helped him up the stairs, unlocking the room and easing him down onto the bed.

He probed at the leg gingerly, feeling the tightness of the recently-healed wound like a severe knot in the meat of his calf. He began to knead the meat of his leg, but stopped abruptly as sharp jags of pain shot through the muscle. He slowly bent it until he could reach his boot and unlaced it. Pulling it off and relaxing the muscle with a sigh of relief. The second was much less difficult, and his belt and weapons followed it into a heap at the foot of the bed. Clad only in his shirt and trousers, he crawled up the bed until his head found one of the soft pillows and he collapsed onto it.

"Drink this." Cel appeared at the bedside, holding a small cup of water. "It'll help."

The water was cool, and as his headache faded slightly, he realized she'd done something to it.

"The spell will work on the damaged muscle over the course of the night." She explained. "It's going to hurt though. That's why…"

"Another soporific?" he guessed.

She nodded, climbing onto the bed and laying beside him, her fingertips began to glow and she reached for his forehead. They stopped a hair's breadth from his skin, and she seemed to contemplate something. A debate going on behind her warm brown eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She ran her hands through his hair, pulling his head forward slightly to kiss his forehead. The relief was instant, and he sighed in pleasure. The magic flooded into his head and the absence of pain was almost narcotic in its intensity.

She slumped onto the bed beside him, burying her face into his shirt again.

"What am I doing?" She muttered.

"What?" he blinked rapidly, fighting the slowly building sedative in his head.

"I'm going to lose myself to the prayers again in a few days." Her tone was solemn, irritated. "Why am I doing this? Why am I falling for someone?"

"The Old Gods gave us a world where some of us can change our fates through sheer force of will alone," he repeated her words from earlier. She pulled back, locking eyes with him and staring.

"What?"

"I think you underestimate what you and I are capable of. On a scale from one to Blackclad…" he slurred tiredly. "falling for a goddess is a solid six. Not the craziest thing I've done, but still pretty impressive."

She fought not to laugh, but it didn't work. The floodgates broke and she laughed until she had tears in her eyes. He laughed with her, sharing the moment.

"Usually I just charge straight in and let the details sort themselves out later." He paused with a small smile. "Hasn't killed me yet. So let's try that."

"Thank you." She nodded, cuddling into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her protectively, and fell into a blissful sleep.

.

…

…

…

.

Waking up was always one of Drake's least favorite things to do. The weightlessness and painlessness of sleep, the serenity of dreams, replaced with the cold, heavy burden of reality. There was always that brief flash of oblivion, where he couldn't remember anything. He had no idea who he was or what he'd done for a split second, before lucidity took him again. This morning, for a miracle, waking up did not disappoint him. The flash of nothingness was replaced with the feeling of a warm body pressed against his, wrapped in his arms. He cracked an eyelid open to regard the most beautiful face he'd ever seen. She was asleep, her face relaxed and framed by her unruly mane of blonde locks.

As he stared at her perfect features, he found himself evaluating his surroundings. His headache was back, although going a day and a half without suppressing his aura had blunted its teeth. His leg was stiff where the knife wound had been, but the pain was gone. It was still dark outside, the room slightly chilled. The fire in the fireplace was burning low, and he could just barely see a sliver of moon through the window on the distant wall. _Almost morning, then._ He reasoned. His eyes fell to the goddess in his arms again. Her face was perfect. Not the ethereal, otherworldly perfection of a goddess, just the perfection of a beautiful girl. For some reason that was better to him. _Less daunting_, he mused. She looked so calm in sleep. You'd never guess she carried such a weight on her shoulders. Over five centuries of protecting the people and she hadn't taken a single day to herself.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead on an impulse, mirroring the gesture she'd used to send him to sleep the previous night. She stirred, before smiling and cuddling closer to his chest.

"Sleep well?" he murmured, squeezing her affectionately.

"Yes." She sighed happily. "Waking up in a warm pair of arms is an amazing feeling. Gods, do you know how many years it had been since I woke up at all? Goddesses don't sleep."

"You passed out after the fight against the demon." He observed, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes. He sat up, removing the blankets and limping to the fireplace.

"That wasn't sleep." She admitted as he heaped fresh wood onto the fire. "I was aware of my surroundings. I was just completely drained and needed to rest."

"What about last night?" he asked, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "When we first got to the city, we slept at the Inn."

"You did." She said cautiously. "I couldn't sleep, so I..." She threw open the covers. "Would you get back over here? I'm cold!"

He chuckled and stared for half a moment, admiring the way the blue dress hung over her form. Stretching out beside her, he pulled the heavy blankets over them again as the fire began to warm the room.

"Wait. You couldn't sleep?" he asked as his arms encircled her again.

"No, I couldn't." she cuddled closer, slightly higher this time to look into his eyes. "Gods, I wish I could keep you just to keep me warm like this every night. It's heavenly."

"I wouldn't be opposed to that." He admitted. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"I just couldn't relax." She fidgeted slightly at the recollection. "No prayers in my head. No control over the elements. No control over _anything_. I felt vulnerable. So I ended up just watching over you all night."

"You watched over me?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"Do you have any idea how long it's been since I was near another person?" she asked, rhetorically. "It was nice just being close to you. You're warm."

"You said that already." He said, giving her a playful squeeze.

"Not physically." She smiled, "Though as I said, it's nice. I mean how you feel. You're protective. It makes me feel safe."

A long, comfortable silence began to form, but Cel cut into it again.

"So when that spell knocked you out, and you looked so peaceful for a change, I didn't want anyone to interrupt." She turned away, blushing. "So I let my powers out and kept anyone who walked into the hallway quiet. When your dreams got too dark I calmed them."

"That's…" he paused, dumbfounded, "probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

"You saved me. You fought a demon for me." She smiled tiredly, resting her forehead on his. "You'd earned yourself a good night's sleep for once." His headache vanished instantly, and a warm feeling of contentment spread from the point of contact.

"I love the way you do that." He sighed in relief. "Did you sleep this time?"

"Yes." She smiled, planting a quick kiss on his lips. "And I'd like a couple more hours."

"Sounds good to me."

.

Four hours later, in the late stretches of the morning, they finally awoke. Drake stretched, rotating and flexing his injured leg. It was a bit stiff, but otherwise fine.

"So what's the plan for today?" asked Cel, who was running her fingers through her unruly hair in an attempt to get it to behave.

"I figure we can actually look for an inn, rather than just taking the first one we find." He offered. "Once we find a place for our stuff, we can actually wander the city a bit. Maybe burn down the Sharn Church."

She chuckled at that, punching him lightly on the arm with an affectionate smile.

"Maybe find me some new clothes, too." She muttered. "I loved this dress when I was younger, but it hasn't aged well."

He regarded her form, clad in the homespun blue dress. As much as he enjoyed how it hung on her curves, she was right. The edges were frayed, and the blue had faded to a dull gray in a few places.

He realized he was staring, and busied himself with packing his belongings, cleaning the room swiftly. Setting a pair of logs in the fireplace, he hefted the saddlebags over his shoulder and reached a hand out to offer her the backpack. She hefted it over one shoulder, studying him. After a moment he shifted uncomfortably.

"What?"

"Just enjoying the moment." She smiled. "Our first actual day together." He blinked, nonplussed.

"Let's ask around, find which inn we want to stay at."

"Works for me."

They left the inn and began wandering the city, headed toward the inner reaches of the middle ring. Cel seemed to talk to everyone who crossed their path, asking where to find the best inn the city had to offer. The only problem was that every opinion differed on that. Eventually Drake took the lead, avidly searching for something, scanning crowds and faces.

"What are we looking for now?" Cel asked, flustered at all the different responses she'd have to sift through. She saw his eyes narrow in satisfaction, and he began weaving and pushing through the crowded street, approaching a figure leaning against the dark wall of an alley. The girl was wearing an incredibly low-cut corset, and a skirt with the sides slit so high they left almost nothing to the imagination. It was immediately clear what line of work she was in.

"What do we need from her?" Cel deadpanned, making her displeasure clear in her voice.

"Information," he answered simply. "Women of her persuasion have the best access to it."

They approached, and she performed a curtsey that gave them an impressive view of her… assets.

"Best rooms in the city?" Drake asked bluntly.

"Depends." She answered with a well-practiced smile. "You want the best food, softest beds, or something else?"

"Both?" He shrugged to the barely-clad girl.

"The Drunken Elf has the softest beds." She explained with a smile. "Best booze, too. The Eagle's Pyre has the best food."

Drake handed her a gold coin. "Thanks for the information."

She eyed the coin suspiciously, eventually bringing it up to her mouth and biting gently. She inspected the coin and her eyes widened. "This is real." The woman marveled. Her practiced facade slipped back on seamlessly and she gave the two of them a sultry smile. "For this much money I'll join the two of you tonight."

Drake turned to Cel, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"That won't be necessary." Cel muttered through clenched teeth.

"Beautiful _and _territorial," her counterpart whistled, eyeing Cel from her neck to her ankles. "Quite a pairing."

Cel glowered at her, and she laughed, pacing over to Drake and running her hand up his chest.

"If you ever want to reconsider…" she trailed off seductively. "I owe you one."

Cel growled. Literally _growled_, and Drake had to fight the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm," he admitted with a whisper. "But at this rate you're about to lose a hand."

The barely-clothed girl raised her hands in concession, stepping back. She bowed deeply, not as much a sign of respect as an attempt to tempt him again, and turned away. Cel turned away in a huff, and Drake followed her, shifting the saddlebags uncomfortably and keeping a stoic silence. After a few blocks, during which Cel asked around to find where the Drunken Elf was, she broke the silence.

"Where does she get off, acting like that?"

"Probably just about wherever she wants." He observed neutrally.

"That's not what I meant!" Cel blurted, getting flustered. "Just because she dresses like a whore, she thinks she can put her hands wherever she wants."

"You're actually mad." Drake smirked. "And she didn't dress like a whore, she _was_ a whore."

"You seem to know a lot about whores." Cel fumed.

"I wasn't always a knight." He admitted with a sigh before changing the subject. "So, softest beds or best food?"

"Softest beds." Cel answered cheerfully. "Best food tomorrow?"

"Sounds good," he nodded with a smile.

The late morning crowds were in full force now, and it took them nearly an hour to work their way to the Drunken Elf. It was located in the innermost stretches of the middle ring, in the shadow of the wall that guarded the nobles from the rest of the city. The inn was almost unrecognizable as such. It was probably five times the size of their previous lodgings, and made of cobbled stone, instead of wood and thatch.

They pushed open the front door and stepped into a massive tavern. Casks of wine, barrels of ale, and bottles of stronger spirits studded the wall behind the bar, and the wood surfaces were all clean and polished. The floor was a solid block of polished stone, absent the sawdust and straw that floored most taverns. A small desk of papers and keys was placed between the door and the stairways to the rooms. Drake whistled appreciatively as the man behind the desk looked up.

"Can I help you two?" he asked, eying Cel's frayed Dress and the weapons all over Drake with apprehension.

"We'd like a room for the night, please." Cel spoke with an easy smile, pulsing reassurance to the man and tossing him a gold coin.

"Well, you're halfway there." The innkeeper chuckled.

"Two gold for a night?" Drake asked, incredulous. He waited a moment before tossing a coin of his own. "Damn."

"Softest beds this side of the mountains." The innkeeper said proudly, pocketing the coin with a swiftness that was almost supernatural. "And your room fee covers your drinking, too."

He handed Drake and ornate iron key with a four engraved into the blackened metal, and nodded toward the stairs. They found their room and Drake stowed the saddlebags away. Cel flopped onto the bed and shivered in pleasure.

"Well, she wasn't lying." The mortal goddess admitted begrudgingly. "This is amazing."

Drake adjusted his weapons and flopped down beside her. "Oh wow."

"Right?"

The bed felt like it was draining the tension from both of them, and it took a near supernatural effort to sit up. The feathers in the mattress shifted slightly, and Cel found herself leaning, her head resting on his shoulder. They stayed like that for a few minutes, just enjoying the contact.

"As much as I like this." She muttered. "If we stay here, we'll both just end up passing out."

"Agreed."

Drake stripped most of his weapons off, leaving himself with only his sword and two throwing blades hidden under the coat. Cel carried her dagger. Locking the room, they descended the stone steps into the impressive tavern again. Drake found himself whistling again as he took in the arched ceiling. A massive chandelier of glass and candles dominated the space above their heads, and the walls had been painted with murals of sprawling mountains and shimmering green plains.

"What's your poison?" a voice called. The accent was strange, but understandable. The man behind the bar waved them over. He was thin, dressed in sharply tailored clothes with a kind smile.

"We're not drinking til tonight." Cel admonished him with a smile. "Celebrations are for after dark."

"Not ze question I asked, but all right." The barkeep admitted. "What are we celebrating?"

"Newfound freedom from religious obligations," Cel smiled cheerfully.

"Heh." The barkeep laughed. "Don't let ze whiterobes from ze Sharn Temple hear you speak like zat. Zey lost an entire army a few years back to try and repress zat kind of talk. I think zey're still a bit bitter."

Drake laughed, loud and genuine. The thin bartender stared at him, surprised by the reaction.

"You're looking at the man responsible for that." Cel said with a chuckle of her own. "This is Drake."

The smaller man studied Drake from hair to boots, taking in the whole picture. After a moment his eyes widened slightly and he nodded.

"If zis is true, zen he has earned a night of strong drink more zan anyone." The barkeep regained his composure. "Back to my earlier question. What's your poison?"

"Ale." Cel said bluntly. Drake shrugged.

"Same."

"Oh, come now." the man behind the bar tutted in disapproval. "Ze lone survivor of ze Blackclad Mercenaries, Ze conqueror of one of ze five Sharn armies, and ze Lady who is enough of a catch for him to show his face after two years." the man paused, shaking a finger in disapproval, "Ale simply will not do. Be creative."

"I'd honestly just like a good ale." Cel admitted. "It's been too long."

"And you, big guy?" the barkeep asked Drake with a smirk. "You looked like you were just being polite."

"The sweet red wine from the east," Drake admitted. "It's my favorite."

"Eastport Red, you say?" the strangely speaking man nodded to himself. "I think we will be good friends, you and I."

Drake chuckled.

"My name is Jacques." The man bowed. "I will be your drinksmith tonight."

.

…

.

After pulling themselves away from the curiously-accented Jacques, the two of them strode into the afternoon sun.

"I wish you hadn't told him my name." Drake admitted. "It makes me uneasy. I don't know if I can trust that guy."

"The accent he has." Cel spoke softly. "I touched his mind. He's from a small city to the west of the Sharn capital. His people were the first conquered by the Temple. They fought hard, but they were almost wiped out. When the Temple started executing women and children they finally surrendered."

Drake's fists clenched, his knuckles going white. A pulse of powerful calm hit him like a hammer, relaxing him.

"I didn't mean to get you angry," Cel said bashfully. "The point is, he doesn't like them any more than you do."

"Fair enough." Drake conceded. He sighed, unable to maintain his anger despite his best effort. "So where to?"

"New clothes!" Cel said cheerfully, hooking her elbow in his and dragging him toward the market. Browsing stands and stalls, they slowly advanced through the marketplace. Eventually they made it to a leatherworker on the edge of the market, his wares piled high and of impressive quality.

"Help you, lass?" the man behind the tables asked pleasantly.

Cel bought herself a large satchel, with a sturdy shoulder strap, a pair of leather bracers, and a pair of heavy black boots that matched Drake's. After paying the man, she slipped the simple cloth shoes she wore off, and donned the boots, standing at least an inch taller for it. She took a few experimental steps and sighed in relief.

"Finally!" she muttered. "I don't have to watch for every pebble anymore."

She stomped happily around the dirty marketplace, checking stalls and strutting like a child who had been promised a new toy. He found another smile tugging at his features. At this rate his cheeks were going to be sore. A plaintive noise came from beside him, and he turned.

A small boy, no more than eight or nine years old, was staring up at him with tears in his eyes.

"I can't find my mommy." The boy sobbed.

"What does she look like?"

"She's pretty…" the boy sobbed. "And she has long hair."

Drake's eyes rolled involuntarily.

"All right, lad." He sighed and hefted the boy up onto his shoulder. "Let's find her."

A feather-light touch on his belt drew his attention, and his hand shot out. His vicelike grip closed on the arm of a boy a couple years older as he tried to vanish into the crowd. Drake's money pouch was in the boy's hand. And his eyes narrowed.

"Cole!" the boy on his shoulder hissed. "Run!"

His hand on the boy's arm tightened, and he lifted him off the ground, retrieving his money before clamping another hand over the knees of the boy on his shoulder.

"Didn't anyone tell you never to steal from an armed man?" he asked, his tone as cold as death itself.

.

…

.

Celryn was thoroughly enjoying herself. Two new outfits, the new boots, half a dozen little odds and ends she'd liked. She idly thumbed the necklace in her belt pouch. It was a tiny copper coin, impossibly ancient in design. A hole had been cut through the center and slowly worked into the shape of a dragon's head. She considered the other identical necklace she had secreted in her belongings. She hoped he'd like it.

She approached another shop, a large wooden building with an open first floor that teemed with rugged clothes. She moved among the racks, picking a few pieces from them that caught her eye. She needed an outfit for the ride back to her lake at the end of this adventure.

_Well,_ she thought with a blush, _I don't need one. I __**want**__ one._

She moved to the dressing room at the back of the shop, stepping inside and drawing the curtain. There was a full-length mirror taking up one wall. She shrugged off the ragged blue dress, giving her exposed form an appraising look in the long mirror.

_Not bad._ She smirked to herself.

Her time as a goddess had definitely changed her in subtle ways. She'd been a great beauty as a mortal, several of Artur's knights smitten with her when they'd first found her. But now, her time as an immortal had toned her body until she was statuesque. Clad only in her heavy boots, each of her proportions was honed to perfection. This was a body that could start wars, she mused. She took another appraising look. Her hair was dirty, the sweat and dust of the road and the slums beginning to show. Her arms and legs were similar, and she focused, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. When she opened them, all the dirt was gone. Her skin shone like she'd just stepped from a hot spring, and her hair was lustrous and clean. The blue dress was similarly scoured of all dirt. There were some advantages to being a goddess, even when off-duty.

Slipping off the boots, she slid her legs into the loose trousers she'd chosen from the shop, tying the drawstring at the waist. A simple swordsman's shirt of white cloth covered her upper body. A corset of brown leather slipped over that, accentuating her form perfectly. She gently ran a hand up the back of the corset, the laces tightening themselves until they were just slightly less than uncomfortable. Slipping her boots back on, she fished through her satchel for the leather bracers and slid them over her forearms. Setting her knife on a simple belt of black leather, she studied her reflection.

She looked like a rogue, some daring outlaw from the tales of adventurers and mysticism. She smiled at the thought. It wasn't that far from the truth. She was an outlaw to the temple, and she did hail from a different age of the world. She paused, remembering Drake's thoughts on combat and studying her reflection for anything amiss. _Your hair,_ she realized. _ Someone could grab hold of it in a fight. _She pulled her hair back, and it wove itself into a tight braid, running down to the small of her back.

_There, _She nodded. _If this doesn't impress him he's officially not human._ The thought made her chuckle as she stowed the blue dress and strode back out into the shop. She paid for her new outfit and made her way back to the marketplace, scanning the crowds for Drake. She couldn't hear any prayers in her head, so he was still within fifty paces. She closed her eyes, letting her hearing drift up past the mortal range until the noise of the day was almost deafening. She heard his tone off to her left, and a split-second later her hearing returned to normal. She began to weave silently through the crowd. She could have made herself completely silent with her powers, or even deadened the senses of the crowd to make her nigh-undetectable. She did neither, wanting to test her prowess as a mortal for the first time in centuries. She'd always been light on her feet.

He was crouched on the edge of the marketplace, talking to two young boys. The sandy blonde of their hair and similar facial structure told her all she needed to know; they were brothers, probably orphans living on the street. It took her a few seconds to realize he was teaching them something. His hands moved enthusiastically, and the two kids absorbed the lesson with rapt fascination. She edged closer, playing the part of the rogue further.

"So you need to distract them first," he told the smaller one. "Point off into the crowd and say_ There she is! _ When their head snaps around to look, that's when you" he gestured to the older one. "Ghost by and take a coin or two."

"Why don't I just take their whole purse?" the older boy asked.

"Because then they'll notice." He explained. "A lot of people in markets loosen the strings on a coin pouch so they can just reach in and pull a few out when they see something they like. Those are the ones to watch for." The boys nodded. "If you only take a coin or two, they won't notice until they count their money again. You take their whole purse and they'll notice right away, and worse, they'll know it was _you_ who took it."

Both boys stared at Drake in wide-eyed admiration.

"So after you've made the grab, how do you get the little guy out?" Drake gestured to the smaller of the two.

"I usually start kicking and screaming until they put me down and then I run away." The boy said, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world.

"Too obvious." Drake shook his head, "they'll know you were in on it."

Cel found a broad smile crack her face and moved away, ghosting through the crowd until she was twenty feet further to their right side. She brought back what she'd gleaned from Drake's memories, slowing her breathing and moving only when a noise from the crowd masked the sound of her boots. She approached slowly, coming around behind Drake and the two little thieves. She moved without a sound, eventually coming to a stop about ten feet behind them.

"So once you've made the grab," he turned to the older boy. "You walk up right in front of the people with your brother, and act like you've been looking for him. Say your parents are worried sick and they've been looking for him for an hour. Act really relieved that you found him."

"But they'll see him!" the younger boy protested.

"That's the point." Drake nodded. "His story will make yours more believable."

"We're doing all of this for a couple coins per mark?" the older boy challenged. "This is a lot of work."

"True." Drake nodded, "But if you're only taking a couple coins at a time, you're much less likely to end up on the wrong end of a sword."

Both of the young faces went pale. After a long pause, they nodded. Cel scraped her boot across the ground, the noise barely audible even to her supernatural senses. Drake tensed instantly.

"Okay," Drake nodded, fishing a few copper coins from his now-concealed money pouch and handing them to the boys. "That's the end of today's lesson. Get yourselves some food and start tomorrow. Some of the merchants saw me pick you up, so it's too risky today."

"Thank you mister!" the younger one beamed.

"No problem." Drake nodded, ruffling the boy's dirty hair. "Take care of your brother."

The two boys vanished instantly into the crowds. Drake spun slowly, tensing as he saw the long knife on the girl's belt. She was leaning with her back to a wall, her posture relaxed, and her arms folded across her chest. Her gear suggested a mercenary or a high-end thief, but her satchel was familiar…

He did a double-take, surprised to find Cel's brown eyes studying him.

"I barely recognize you." He laughed. "What brought this on?"

She waved the question away. "That…" she nodded in the direction the orphans had taken off in, "Was probably the most heartwarming thing I've seen since becoming human. You were teaching them to steal?"

"They were already stealing." He gestured to the empty spot on his belt where his money usually sat. "It was too obvious. I was teaching them to steal _well_."

"So you like kids?" she asked.

"I _hate_ kids." He sighed, "Doesn't mean I want to see them lose a hand for being hungry."

She was about to reply when he gestured at her new clothes.

"So what brought this on?" he repeated. "I like it. I _really_ like it, but it's about as far from where you were as possible."

"I needed some riding clothes, and I didn't want to look like the damsel in distress anymore." She admitted. "I want to look like I belong next to you. Not like a burden."

"I'm the one that you keep having to babysit." He smiled.

"I don't mind." She smiled back. "I enjoy watching over you."

The sun was getting low in the sky by the time the market started to wind down. Cel had weaved through the crowd for hours, checking every stall, listening to the stories of merchants from far off lands, and smiling like it was the best day of her life. Drake had watched, and occasionally joined in, even the practiced gruffness of his exterior worn away by the girl who had his arm in hers.

They returned to their inn just as the sun was setting, and after finishing their dinner, Cel excused herself to go upstairs and change. Drake returned to the bar, slumping into one of the seats and waving for a drink. Before he could even drop his arm back to his side, a glass of Eastport Red slid to his other hand.

"How do you do that?" he marveled.

"We all have our gifts." Jacques gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Mine is reading people. So what has you so tired mister Blackclad?"

Drake tensed, glancing over his shoulder. The bar was empty. Turning back to the barkeep, he found the strangely-accented man staring at him, intent on an answer.

"I've never taken a girl to a bustling market before." He mused, sipping the wine and smiling at the familiar taste. "It was exhausting."

"She comes back looking ready for ze war." Jacques nodded. The clang of a heavy bell sounded outside, and people began filing into the tavern with purpose. "So why are you and she both looking so sad?"

"I have to take her back to where I found her in a few days." Drake sighed, feeling uncharacteristically talkative. "And I'm falling for her."

"Falling implies you have somewhere lower to go." The bartender smirked. "Take it from a man who watches zis happen day in and day out. You have both fallen. Might as well enjoy ze time you have together, especially with her getting all dressed up to impress you."

"That wasn't to impress me."

"Not zat." Jacques shook his head with a knowing smile. "Zis next bit will be what impresses you. Here." The barkeep offered him a small shotglass of what looked like a dark red wine. "Try zis."

Drake closed his eyes and inhaled over the glass, letting the scents mingle. It smelled like a sweet red, but slightly off. He brought the glass to his lips, tasting it. He almost sputtered when it touched his tongue. It burned like nothing he'd tasted before, and then faded to a sweet, red wine flavor.

"This is damn good." He admitted. "What is it?"

"Last year's harvest of grapes from Eastport suffered ze noble rot. Ze grapes shrivel, and ze sweetness is condensed. Because of zis, ze wine ends up too sweet." The barkeep smiled. "It ruin ze classic balance of flavors zey are famous for. So zey add it to brandy. Half fortified wine, half liqueur, zis is called Eastport Fire."

Drake knocked back the shotglass, savoring the burn it gave on the way it went down.

"Still delicious," Jacques chuckled. "But it will knock you on your ass if you do not respect it."

"Sounds like me." Drake chuckled. "More, please."

A few moments later, a glass slid down the bar to stop before Drake, a few chunks of ice swimming in a much larger portion of the new drink. Three glasses later, he was feeling very warm, and the world seemed to have lost all of its sharp edges. The bar was now full, the sounds of drinking and revelry filling the high-ceilinged chamber with its familiar clamor. Despite this, his headache had faded to a barely-perceptible throb at the edge of his senses, and he smiled as he sipped his drink.

A commotion behind him drew his attention, and he spun in his chair, craning his neck to see what was happening. Had it not been attached, Drake's jaw would have cracked the floor.

Cel was coming down the stairs, gliding her way through the crowd of revelers on the balcony. She was radiant. A dress of purest white was accented by a blue bodice that hugged her curves in all the most flattering ways. Her hair was shining like silk, and the curls cascaded down to her bare shoulders, framing her face perfectly. She weaved through the throng of drinking men and women, drawing eyes and silencing conversations.

"Close your mouth, hero," Jacques said with a smirk, "Ze Lady approaches."

Drake did so. Cel's eyes found his, and her smile almost knocked him out of his chair. The entire tavern went silent as she approached the bar. All eyes staring in rapt adoration, minds scrabbling for any flaw at all. None were found. She strode calmly, and the seats were all emptied immediately, until only Drake remained. She took the seat beside him, scooting closer and raising a hand to the barkeep.

"Our finest ale for ze lovely lady." Jacques spoke quietly, sliding a mug to her.

Cel lifted the mug, draining it all in one long pull and slamming it down onto the polished surface of the bar. A second tankard followed it, and a third. After the third, she wiped a perfect hand across her lips and turned to Drake with a smile.

"Another round for everyone!" he called, shattering the silence and tossing a gold coin to the Jacques, who caught it deftly. The tavern roared their approval, as fresh drinks were poured for all. A bottle of Eastport Red slid toward Drake, and he caught it, nodding his thanks. He pulled the cork with his teeth, taking a tentative sip on instinct. No poison, but the wine needed to breathe. He set the bottle aside and turned to Cel, his breath catching again. She casually flicked her hair back over her shoulder. He found himself following the line of her collarbones, over the curve of her shoulder, up the bare side of her neck, and back to that perfect face.

"So…" she muttered, blushing. "How do I look?"

"You look…" his words failed him. He tried to speak and stumbled over the thoughts, falling silent. He noticed the necklace and tried to make out what it was, but glanced away when he realized he'd been staring straight at her chest.

"What's this?" she asked, picking up the icy drink he'd been nursing. "Must be strong stuff to shut you down like this."

"It is," he said as she took a sip. "Be caref…"

She drained the drink, leaving nothing but the ice in the glass. He stared at her. She stared back, her face neutral. A few seconds passed, and her eyebrow twitched. A few more, and her face scrunched up, bringing a smile to his.

"Damn." She shuddered. "That _is_ strong. What is it?"

"Eastport Fire, Jacques calls it." He waved to the bartender. "Two more!"

Two fresh drinks slid down the bar instantly, settling in front of them.

"You're staring."

"You're stunning." He countered without thinking. His eyes widened in surprise at his own words, and he dropped his gaze again. Eyes falling on the heavy black boots she still wore. "Heh."

"I forgot to buy shoes," she fidgeted uncomfortably. "Shut up."

"I like them." He smiled, raising his eyes to hers again. "They suit you."

She smiled back, blushing slightly. She downed her second glass of Eastport fire as quickly as the first. Her nose wrinkled again at the burn.

"You should slow down." Drake observed. "You'll be smashed faster than that kid's nose last night."

"Heh." She chuckled, shaking off the last dregs of the alcohol burn. "I'd never hit anyone before that. Ever."

"You did great." He nodded in approval.

"Here's to you." She said, lifting a new tankard of ale as it slid down to stop flawlessly in front of her. "Teaching your goddess the proper way to break a man's nose and stop a knife."

"Here's to you." Drake clinked his bottle of wine to her drink. "Making one of your knights smile more in a day than he usually does in a year."

She blushed at that, and they both drank. An awkward silence began to form, but Cel cut it off.

"So why didn't you punish those two kids when they tried to steal your money?"

"I have a soft spot for orphans." He admitted. "And teaching them will do more good than punishing them would have."

The silence stretched again, each of them sipping their drink.

"Zere is a question eating away at ze back of your mind, darling." Jacques cut in, resting a hand on Cel's own. "Ask. I have kept him drinking so zat he will be very hard to offend."

Drake narrowed his eyes at Jacques accusingly.

"What?" the thin man turned away to pour a drink for another man at the bar. "Is my job."

The silence stretched for a few moments before Cel spoke again.

"Who was the redhead?" she asked. "The last time I asked I just got a wall of anger and you almost left."

Drake sighed, downing another glass of fire and waving away the incoming replacement.

"D'you want to just jump in and see for yourself?" he asked, tapping the side of his head. "It's not really a story I enjoy."

He suppressed his power. She closed her eyes, focusing as they each felt the moment of contact. It all happened in the blink of an eye, his control slipping and her being pushed back out of his thoughts, but she saw the entire siege in that one powerful moment.

"Wow." She muttered after a moment.

"Yep." He nodded, sipping his wine. "That was the redhead."

"I was talking about the battle." She muttered. "You were amazing."

"You're now one of the two people living who has seen it," he muttered. "Like your origins, no?"

She scooted closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He leaned into the contact.

"What a pair we make, huh?" she asked with a sad smile.

"I'll drink to that." He chuckled before raising his voice. "Another round!"

"To the Blackclad." She raised her glass.

"To the Lady of Grace." He clinked his to hers.

"Stories nobody could ever know," Cel mused, "More important than they could ever understand."

"Here here!" he smiled, the expression broad and genuine.

Several rounds later, they were both very drunk, and Drake broke the comfortable silence.

"If I'm gonna keep buying rounds for the whole place…" He stood, swaying slightly until he found his balance. He reached out to pluck his bottle of wine from the surface of the bar. "I need more coin. Back in a minute."

He swayed as he walked toward the stairs, and Cel found herself staring at the drink in her hands. She glanced up to find Jacques staring at her from behind the bar.

"What?" she challenged. The thin man glanced toward the direction Drake had gone, and then back to her. A pause stretched, and the bartender looked amused. She repeated the question. "What?"

"Follow him, you idiot." Jacques said with a smile.

She stood, taking a few faltering steps before catching herself on the chair. Taking a deep breath, she took off at a brisk pace toward the retreating form of her bodyguard.

Drake was almost to the base of the stairs when the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls set him on his guard. He waited til they were almost on top of him before sidestepping sharply. Not expecting this, Cel stumbled and began to fall forward. He caught her with his free arm, steadying her.

"I'll go with you." She said, blushing as her words slurred slightly. "Y'know. 's dangerous to go alone."

"You," he muttered, staring her in the face, "are drunk."

"I am." She nodded, grinning as he steadied her on her feet again. "It's_ wonderful_. I can barely hear myself think, let alone all that other crap. It's so peaceful. I'm just me."

He chuckled, running a hand through her hair and shaking his head. He took a long pull from his wine. "There's a special place in the Abyss for people like me; getting a goddess drunk."

"There's a special place for you right here." She smiled, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. The tavern cheered. The kiss lingered, and when they broke for air, they were both breathing heavily. "Now." she spoke, her voice taking on an exaggerated, refined edge. "I believe there was some talk of heading back to the room."

The trek up the stairs was perilous. They could barely make it two steps before her lips found his, or his found hers. After what seemed like an hour, they reached the door. Her hands ghosted through each of his pockets, hunting for the key as her tongue battled with his, and she broke the kiss only to unlock the room.

Once the heavy wooden door was opened, she pulled him inside and pushed him against the wall. He chuckled as she waved a hand, slamming the door and turning the lock from five feet away. Their lips met again, and there was no sign of her earlier gentleness. This was heavy and aggressive, the two of them practically clawing at one another. Breaking for air, she hiked her skirt up so her legs could come up inside his coat and wrap around his waist. He spun them both, pinning her to the wall. She leaned in beside him, capturing his ear between her teeth and moaning seductively. He growled as the new sensation sent shivers down his spine, leaning down to gently bite the side of her neck. She arched her back, grinding her hips into his, pushing them away from the wall and toward the bed. Her teeth gently bit down on his ear around another moan and his knees trembled slightly. He felt her smile as they continued their mutual assault, cheek to cheek.

"Think I found a weak spot." She whispered huskily, teasing his earlobe with her tongue. In response he bit slightly harder, eliciting another groan of pleasure.

Her hands pushed his coat from his shoulders, and he withdrew his arms for a moment to let it drop to the ground with a dull thud. His found the laces of her bodice, fumbling for a moment before finding the knot and untying it deftly. She showed no such consideration, tearing open the front of his shirt and sending it to follow his coat. Then she shrugged out of her top, pulling it down and leaving each of them bare from the waist up. Her eyes scanned downward, and she swore.

"Gods below." She whispered, struggling to catch her breath as she nuzzled his chest. "You were right about seeing you without a shirt. Your scars are _amazing_."

With a playful shove, she pushed him back onto the bed, crawling toward him and running a hand up his scarred chest. His hand came up to cup her necklace gently, studying it for a moment. As he recognized the design, he smiled. His hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her bodily and bringing their lips together again. She returned the smile, their antics becoming gentle and loving for a few moments. She leaned forward to kiss the line across his collarbones, and Drake tensed suddenly, his hands falling away from her bare back.

"What's wrong?" she asked, resting her forehead on his. The contact banished his headache instantly, and he sighed in relief. "Don't you find me appealing?"

"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he admitted. "By a long way. I'm just not sure I want to be the man who defiled a goddess."

"So I should stay on top, then?" she purred, pushing off of him and sitting up. Straddling him, she put her hands on her hips. What feeble resistance his conscience had been putting up died, snuffed out like a candle by the sight.

.

…

…

…

.

Time passed in a blur, after what had only seemed like a few hours, a loud knock came on the door. They each stopped, freezing in place with their lips and bodies still entwined under the blanket.

The knock repeated, louder.

"Oi!" a voice came through the thick door. "It's almost evening! Either pay for another night or get out!"

They both just stared at each other, blinking in disbelief. Cel's stomach rumbled loudly, followed by his own. Untangling himself from her flawless body, Drake stood, half-dressing in a blur and opened the door. Blinking groggily at the light from the torch the man carried, he handed him two coins. The man glanced over his shoulder, eying the mess the room had become. Pursing his lips for a moment, he studied the barely-concealed silhouette of the Lady's form under the thin blanket. The rotund little man eyed Drake, clad only in his black pants, held up with a hand in the absence of a belt. His eyes lingered on the bite marks and hickeys decorating the swordsman's neck and shoulders. After a few moments, the innkeeper gave him an impressed nod.

A bark of laughter from the bed made Drake blush slightly, and he fished another gold coin from his pocket, handing it to the man and asking for a dinner that would easily feed six. Striding back over to the bed, he appraised the room. It looked like a tornado had ripped through it, furniture upended and cast about the room. The only thing that was more-or-less intact was the bed.

He laughed softly, shaking his head.

"What?" she sat up, letting the blanket fall and giving him a view that could stop a lesser man's heart. His eyes betrayed him, and he ended up staring for several moments before shaking his head to free himself.

"Hmm?"

"You laughed." She said, "What's funny?"

"Oh." He realized, his former train of thought catching back up to him. "I was just thinking, for the Goddess of Grace, you're pretty destructive."

"When the right mood strikes," she laughed. "And for a swordsman you're surprisingly skilled at other things."

He gave a theatrical bow, hearing her scoot to the edge of the bed. Her hands found his hair, running through it and gently dragging her fingernails across his scalp. His eyes drifted shut, and her fingers gently traced down the sides of his head. One fingertip came to rest under his chin, gently leading him toward her. He followed the gesture, eventually stopping when his legs hit the bed. The feather-light touch of her hand swept past the side of his neck, settling behind his head. His eyes snapped open as he was hauled forward onto Cel's waiting form. He smiled as their lips met, the touch soft and gentle. Her arms wrapped around him, and his returned the gesture, pulling the blanket over the two of them. She rolled him onto his back, the kiss becoming less gentle as she moved on top of him.

Another knock sounded at the door.

An exasperated sigh escaped Cel's lips as Drake untangled himself again and made to open the door.

A cart was wheeled in, practically overflowing with food. Drake fixed the upended table and had to find the chairs amongst the wreckage of the room. The serving girl with the cart whistled appreciatively.

"Right?" Cel smiled, sitting up wrapped in the blankets.

"You two seem to have been…" she trailed off. "Enthusiastic."

Cel giggled, and Drake felt a blush reddening his cheeks. The serving girl set the food and drink about the table and excused herself with a polite curtsey. Drake lit a few candles and began rummaging through a small cloth bag the girl had left on the floor. Several bottles of wine emerged, followed by two smaller bottles of Eastport fire.

Cel stood, stretching. She swept up his torn shirt and set it over her shoulders like a coat. As her hand ran down the shredded front, it wove back together flawlessly. She paced to the table and he found himself staring at the curve of her hips through the long shirt, and her bare legs as she walked. His eyes did not go wanting. She found one of the chairs and flipped it upright, slumping into it without ceremony.

"Ow…" she muttered with a laugh. "Gods, I am sore in the _best_ way right now."

He gave a theatrical bow and mirrored her gesture, flipping the chair and sitting down before also wincing at the impact. "Me too." He laughed. "That's a first."

"This has been a day of firsts." She smiled, raising a glass of wine.

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You weren't my first." She spluttered into her cup, shaking her head. "I was older than you are when I ascended. I lived a pretty full life, but sixteen hours on and off is a first. You're a bit… better… than the farm boys of my little town."

"I'll drink to that." He nodded with a smile, raising one of the bottles of the stronger spirit.

"To the endurance of heroes." She laughed as they drank. "Keeping their goddesses satisfied."

"Satisfied?" He asked playfully, filling a bowl from the small pot of stew. "Already?"

"I didn't say that." Cel muttered, tearing off a chunk of warm bread and chomping into it with gusto. "But you aren't tired yet, and I'm a goddess. The night is young." She chuckled, refilling their glasses and beginning to fill her plate from the various foods adorning the table.

.

…

…

…

.

A few hours later, with the food gone and their passions exhausted, they lie in the bed. His arm was curled protectively around her shoulder, and her bare leg was draped over him. She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and tracing his scars gently with a hand. His hand absentmindedly stroked up and down the smooth skin of her back.

"Have you thought about it?" she asked, glancing up to him.

"About what?"

"I can still touch your mind." She said smugly. "After so many hours being literally _on_ you, it's not even difficult anymore. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Run away together?" he asked, admitting what they were both thinking. "I hang up my sword and coat. You stick close to me for the rest of our years to keep the prayers out. Build a little cabin somewhere in the woods. Hunt our own food. Make our own clothes. Venture into town maybe once a month?"

"It sounds so good." She mused, her eyes drifting shut contentedly. "But…"

He sighed. "But…"

"We won't." they said in unison.

A long silence stretched between the two of them, and they tightened their grip on one another.

"You know things nobody else does, you could educate the world, you could revolutionize magic, or healing, you could write an accurate timeline for all of history. You could teach the people, and completely undermine the Sharn Temple, but you won't walk away from your responsibilities as a goddess." He observed. "The people pray to you, the knights pray to you, and you feel like you owe it to them to give them some hope. So you'll spend your eternity doing what you're doing now: Watching from afar and only intervening in subtle ways."

"And you're the strongest man I've ever seen. Your power is unlike anything I've ever encountered. You could train armies, become a general, a leader. You could conquer the world with a few decent fighters watching your back. But fighting runs in your blood." She nodded to him. "So you won't ever sit back and lead. You'll fight. You'll protect the innocent, but you need to be wherever the combat is heaviest." She paused. There was no judgment in her voice, merely understanding, and he savored that for a moment. "It's where you feel the most alive. It's what makes your blood sing. Some small part of you still hopes that someday you'll find someone better, and when they take you down you can rest and see your friends again."

He sighed at that, and the silence stretched again. Both of them contemplated the observations of the other, taking perspective on their paths. It was several long minutes before Cel broke the silence.

"We _suck_." She observed bluntly.

He started to laugh, the sound loud and genuine. After a moment she laughed too. They laughed until tears were running down their faces.

"So neither of us can give up our lives." He paused, wiping the tears from her face, she wiped the tears from his, and he closed his eyes, leaning into the contact. "Doesn't mean we couldn't make this a regular thing."

"What?" she asked.

"This." He squeezed her closer. "I ride in, whisk you off your feet and we spend a day or two together before going back to our dumb lives."

"How often?" she asked, her tone guarded. A long pause stretched, and she propped herself up, staring into his eyes. He stared back, brushing a lock of hair from her face and letting his knuckles trail gently down her cheek.

"I don't know." He conceded. "As often as we can."

She sighed, and his hand pulled her closer, bringing them nose to nose.

"So at this point you're asking me out?" she smiled. "You think you can handle having a goddess for a girlfriend?"

"I can handle anything." He shrugged with a small, genuine smile. "Didn't you just tell me that?"

"Why?"

"The hell kind of question is that? You're amazing." He paused, breaking the eye contact. A rare note of vulnerability entered his voice. "You're as alone as I am, and almost as screwed up. I fell for you, Cel. I don't want this to be a one-time thing."

"Why?" she repeated, her tone neutral.

"You're more powerful than I am," he said after a moment's consideration, "which is new to me. It also means I'm not some kind of challenge, I'm just Drake. The first time you kissed me you said it was because I saw you as a human and not an ideal. I know exactly what you meant by that now. You actually look at me like a human being." His eyes drifted shut and he sighed. "Every single person I meet has some mix of misplaced reverence and predatory interest. Everyone, even my friends, just end up just sizing me up and contemplating how hard it'd be to take me down. Even if they'd never do it, I can still see the gears turning in their heads. With you, I'm just Drake, and you still find me fascinating for some reason."

Her breath caught in her throat. The tone of vulnerability was still there, and he shook his head slightly.

"It's nice." He smiled sadly. "Even if it isn't true, telling me yes will make taking you back to your lake in two days a_ hell _of a lot less depressing."

She smiled then, inching her way up to plant a kiss on his forehead. The headache he hadn't even noticed vanished, and he sighed in relief, relaxing into the feathery softness of the bed.

"That a yes?" he asked, his eyes drifting shut.

"I'll think about it." She smiled, cradling his head to her chest protectively. He fell asleep instantly, his arms finding their way around her waist to hold her close. His shoulders relaxed, the tension he always carried bleeding out of him. She reached out involuntarily, brushing the edges of his mind with hers. He was peaceful, the higher functions of his mind fading into the oblivion of sleep. She gently ran her fingers through his hair, enjoying the feel of closeness. That oblivion must feel nice; letting all your concerns just fade to black for a while. An idea struck her. She brought a hand up to his lips, focusing until a gentle glow emanated from her fingertips. She transferred the magic into him, watching as the glow settled into his skin before bringing her head down. His lips touched her forehead in a mirror of the gesture that she'd sent him to sleep with. The spell discharged, and she felt the wave of lethargy sweep through her mind.

"I don't want to watch you die." She admitted, aloud. "If we do this, I'll outlive you. I outlive everybody. Then I have to watch it end."

"Hnn… 'm not gonna die…" he mumbled. She felt a moment of panic before she realized he was still asleep. "still got shit to do… 'm a knight."

She found herself smiling at him, and held him closer, cradling him protectively. He was in the earliest stages of a dream, and could apparently still hear.

"Damn right you aren't." she muttered, feeling that same sleep come up to claim her. "I won't let you…"

.

…

…

…

.

Drake snapped awake, scanning the room for threats on instinct. Cel shivered slightly. She'd rolled away from him as she slept. He pulled the covers up, hiding her bare shoulder from the brisk air. He glanced to the dark window. The first hints of dawn were starting to lighten the sky, barely perceptible.

He extracted himself from the sublimely soft bed, moving slowly to keep from waking her. After finding his belt, he moved to his pack. Moving with agonizing slowness, he extracted the two fist-weights from the leather satchel. Normally he'd begin by clanging them together to imitate the starting bell, but he didn't want to wake her. He moved to the largest open space in the room, taking a deep breath to calm himself. Mapping out his distance to each of the various pieces of furniture, he closed his eyes.

His opponent was massive, a full head taller and several stones heavier. His face looked like a beaten lump of iron, the ragged hair streaked with gray. The man looked like a mountain carved from flesh. Drake sized him up, studying how he moved for any tells. None were apparent. The massive man studied him in turn, taking in the way he moved, the way he breathed, the way he carried himself. They each captured the other's movements in an instant, and Drake became a blur, streaking toward the man. His fist arced for the massive jaw. What happened next was one of his most treasured memories. Seemingly without effort, his opponent shifted his weight, catching the blow on a shoulder and hammering his fist into Drake's gut with the force of a sledgehammer.

The young man was catapulted back to land on his back, all the air punched from his lungs. He didn't reenact this, it'd be too noisy. What happened next was what made him grin every time. His opponent paced over to him and offered a hand, beckoning him to stand and continue fighting with a wry grin. Drake took it and was hauled roughly to his feet. They squared up again, and this time his mountain of an opponent went on the offensive. The massive fists became a blur. For every three punches that Drake blocked or evaded, one slammed into him with bone-shaking force. First hit was to the side of his head, dazing him. The next three happened in as many heartbeats; side, shoulder, and head again.

Drake swayed slightly, shaking his head to dispel the wave of vertigo. He saw genuine respect in the older fighter's eyes and savored it. He attacked, this time a little more cautious. His fists moved in a blur as he jabbed, hooked, and spun. After a high-arcing headshot that was predictably stopped, his other fist slipped through his opponent's guard to slam into his jaw, rattling his teeth. The massive man blinked several times, like a wolf that had just been slapped across the snout by an angry pup, and smiled again.

Drake felt sweat coating his bare arms and chest. He felt his smile growing as he remembered, ducking and swiping and punching. His opponent went on the offensive again, and it was all he could do to keep his head down and his nose unbroken. Several hits slipped past his guard, hammering his brow and gut like he was a piece of metal on an anvil. He was bruised, he was bloody, he was drenched in sweat, but he didn't go down. His opponent looked as fresh as when the fight had started, apart from the bruise forming on the left side of his jaw. The fight continued, and the crowd started to cheer at Drake's stubborn refusal to fall…

"You didn't strike me as a boxer…" Cel's voice cut into the memory. Drake froze for a moment, turning to her and opening his eyes. She yawned and blinked tiredly. "Morning."

"Morning."

"So this is how you keep in such delicious shape?" she asked with a grin.

"Before the Blackclad, when I was a lone swordsman." He turned back to his imagined opponent, letting his eyes drift shut again and ducking the memory of a haymaker before slamming a fist to where the gut would be. "I needed to eat. When merc work was dry, I'd fight in the sand circle. Every town has one."

She nodded and watched him, studying the motions and how the muscles fought against the weights on his hands. He ducked the memory of another swing, flashing a smile and sweeping out a combo of quick jabs. "You look like you miss it."

"A little," he conceded. "But it doesn't become a knight to beat the shit out of people while a crowd howls and places bets. How'd you sleep?"

"Like a rock." She admitted. "No dreams or anything."

"That's always the best." He nodded, stepping back quickly and feigning a straight left.

"This is a specific fight," she observed, "One that you remember."

"Hit for hit." He nodded with another smile, "One of my favorites."

"Who was the opponent?" she asked, sitting up.

"I don't remember his name. Biggest man I ever saw; a full head taller than _me_. He beat the everloving shit out of me for three rounds." Drake mused with a genuine smile, weaving and ducking the memory of the hits. She watched as he moved. He looked several years younger, an optimistic swagger to his motions and no tension in his face. "He had reach on me, and he'd been a prize fighter for years. He read me like a book. Fourth round, I got in a lucky hit and cracked a rib." A haymaker hammered out into the imaginary opponents side. Drake ducked back and his fists became a blur, battering and smashing with an almost supernatural speed. "After that he had to use his dominant arm to guard the rib, and I took him _apart_."

Emphasizing the last word, Drake spun aside before launching a colossal uppercut. He then motioned with his head as though watching a massive form hit the ground. He stood for a moment, breathing heavily and bathing in remembered cheers.

"What'd you do afterward?" she asked.

"Helped him up and bought him a drink." Drake smiled at the simple purity of the memory.

Cel found the same smile tugging at her lips as she watched him. Just for the duration of the fight, all the weight had lifted from his shoulders. Now she saw it settle over him like a shroud as he dried himself off. He cleaned the iron gauntlets off, before dropping them to the floor with a resounding clank.

"As much as I love the view…" she muttered, closing her eyes and falling back to lie on the pillow. "Get your ass back over here. I'm cold."

He smiled, tossing a few new pieces of wood onto the fire and flopping down onto the bed beside her. The softness seemed to drain all the tension from his burning muscles, and he slid under the covers.

She cuddled into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her. The two of them dozed, just enjoying the warmth and the closeness until the morning sun was blazing into the window.

Eventually the sun on his face was too much for Drake, and he stirred. Cel awoke when he moved, and turned away from the beams of sunlight, muttering grumpily.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I said fuck the sun," she grumbled. "It's too bright."

"Tremble in fear, all ye of the land." He chuckled. "Your goddess has a hangover."

"Shut up." She muttered, burying her face in a pillow.

He straddled her back, and began gently kneading the muscles of her shoulders. He found a knot, and slowly worked it out, before resuming his search for another.

"That feels divine…" she groaned, her voice muffled by the pillow.

"Good." He nodded, smirking. "Because I have no idea what I'm doing."

He continued for a few minutes, working the tension from her bare back and shoulders, before eventually letting his hands fall still. Cel took a deep breath under him and seemed to glow from within for a moment. Her body relaxed, and she sighed in relief.

"So you could have done that from the start?" he raised an eyebrow, sliding off of her to flop back down onto the bed.

"I didn't want to deny you the chance to get your hands on me again." She answered playfully, pushing up from the bed to crawl up his form.

"Ha ha." He deadpanned.

Their lips met, and the touch was gentle. They savored it, holding the contact for a while. When they finally broke apart, Cel said what was on both of their minds.

"I'm hungry."

"Me too," Drake agreed.

"Next Inn?" she asked tiredly. Drake nodded.

They dressed as fast as they were able, Drake in his long coat and weapons, Cel in her leather riding gear. Their pace was slowed by their exertions of the past few days. Sore muscles protested as they sluggishly gathered their belongings. Drake took in the destruction of their room anew and whistled.

"We really did wreck this place."

"And each other." Cel snickered, setting her knife on her belt.

They worked quickly, setting the furniture back and fixing the room as best they could. Drake left a couple coins on the bedside table by way of an apology, and they strode out and down the stairs. The tavern was empty, and Jacques was cleaning a glass with a white cloth, whistling some manner of drinking song. The two of them approached and Jacques raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. Cel blushed.

"Nobody sees ze pair of you for almost two days, and one of ze serving girls tells me your room is a disaster area." He whistled, sounding impressed. "Was it zat good?"

"Yep." They spoke in unison. "It was."

"I must send word to Eastport." He chuckled. "Ze new spirit produces _fantastic_ results: Capable of pleasing ze Lady of Grace herself."

Cel's eyes went wide. Drake tensed.

"What?" Jacques asked, looking amused. "You think I am not listening when ze two of you talk at my bar? Watching over so many is great burden, I know. Is my job too. Slightly smaller scope, zough. I only need to watch ze drunks." He gave a deep genuine bow. "Is an honor you chose Jacques' bar to spend your time."

The simple honesty in the man's voice broke the tension, and brought a smile to her lips.

"Thank you, Jacques."

"My lady." He rose from the bow. "Come back to Jacques whenever you need to."

Her smile broadened and she nodded, taking Drake's hand and pacing away with the backpack over her shoulder. Drake gave Jacques a nod of thanks before vanishing out into the cool morning air.

Cel took off at a ground-eating pace, headed toward where the next inn was supposedly located. After a few minutes, they found themselves on the edge of the noble's area. The shadow of the massive wall blotted out the morning sun, setting old battle memories alight in Drake's mind. He took deep breaths, fighting against the bitterness he felt welling up.

By the time they were halfway around the inner circle of the city, he was tense enough to stop a crossbow bolt with his neck. Each gate, each crenellated tower, all of it reminded him of the siege. Being this close he could almost hear the roars of the pyres and feel the blood slicking the stones again.

Cel's hand found his, pulling him out of the memory and grounding him again. He sighed in relief as some of the stress vanished. He gave her a tense smile of thanks, and she squeezed his hand. Just as they were rounding another gate, they were stopped to make way for a group exiting the noble's inner sanctum. They joined the small crowd being pushed away from the gate, hurried away by guards in gleaming armor.

Clad in purest white, the delegation of the Sharn Temple made their way into the middle ring of the city. A ring of Templars, carrying tower shields and consecrated maces, formed a loose bodyguard. Banners were unfurled, censers full of incense burned on chains, and the priest in the most expensively tailored robe began calling out.

"Twenty crowns for every man who will take up arms in the Holy Armies of the Temple! Help us smash the army of the Heretic cities!" his voice was refined and charismatic. "Care for your families and prove your piety!"

Drake's free hand began moving toward his throwing blades, but Cel squeezed the other. One of the priests locked eyes with Drake, and his brow furrowed in recognition. Drake scowled back. A barely-perceptible pulse of light from Cel, and the priest's features relaxed, glancing around the crowd for any raised hands.

Many of the crowd enthusiastically approached the delegation, and Drake began memorizing faces without conscious thought. Cel tugged on his hand, pulling him away from the wall, away from the group, and toward the outer rings of the city.

The last inn was a run-down building on the edge of the slums. The tavern attached to it was an almost literal hole in a wall. Four tables sat in a dark room, the torches on the walls burning low. Plain wooden plates and dented iron cups were set at each one. Drake eyed them quizzically.

"Are we sure this is the right place?"

"This is it." Cel affirmed. "The Eagle's Pyre."

"Hm." Drake paced into the dining room.

"Excuse us!" Cel called. "We'd like a room please!"

A grumpy looking man in a dirty apron stomped out of the kitchen, appraising the two of them with his one good eye.

"Room's fifty silver." The man grumbled, holding out an impatient hand. "Food's extra."

Cel produced two gold coins, dropping them into the man's palm.

Their room was small, but well-kept. The lack of a fireplace left it somewhat colder than the outside air. He barely noticed the details of the room. His mind was ablaze with thoughts of the coming war. The Temple were raising another army, that meant they were going on the offensive. He felt an intoxicating thrill of anticipation trickle down his spine. He needed to find out where they were mobilizing, find whomever they were planning to attack and make the Temple pay as steep a cost as possible. Maybe take a page from Bryce's book and infiltrate their army's camp in the night. Cripple their chain of command and…

"You seem tense." Cel observed, snapping him from his thoughts.

"Sharn guys just got my blood up." He said nonchalantly. "They always do." The lie came easily, but Cel looked unconvinced.

"You wanted to kill them." She said sadly.

He sighed, his shoulders dropping as he lowered the backpack and saddlebags to the ground. There was no arguing that point. He _had _wanted to kill them. He still did. If he had been alone, he _would_ have killed them. He'd have left that street a charnel house, and fled the city.

"What of it?" he asked calmly.

"You're actually excited at the prospect of that battle." The sadness in her voice turned colder, less consoling and more condemning. "Of carving through those men they hired on a field somewhere, and sending them all to the afterlife. Those men who just want to feed their families. I can feel it like a fire in your veins. You're _looking forward_ to it."

Her tone made him break eye contact, but anger swiftly replaced his shame. If she wanted to judge him, that wasn't his problem. He had enemies, and as long as he drew breath, he'd make them pay. His anger seethed like a furnace inside of him and he clenched his fists.

Cel's hands came up, clasping together as if in prayer, and she began to glow slightly from within. The radiance fought with his aura.

"Rage isn't enough, anymore."

He eyes went wide. It was _his_ voice, from his first night at the Citadel. He sounded tired. Worn out. Dead inside.

"I need to do something with myself. I need _purpose_."

The glow sputtered and died, and she dropped her hands, turning and pacing from the room with a sad shake of her head. That subtle shake of her head cut into him like a knife, and he hung his head in shame.

It took him several long minutes to work up the motivation to leave the room. Locking the door, he found Cel in the dining room, food piled in front of her and a place set for him across the table. He ate mechanically, the food was sublime, but he barely tasted it. Cel's face was lit with delight as she sampled each dish, but she barely even glanced at him. After one small plate of food, he politely excused himself back to the room. Pulling his bedroll from the saddlebags, he laid on the floor and drifted into a troubled sleep.

His dreams were all of blood and death, and rather than the usual rush of adrenaline, all he felt was disgust.

He awoke in the middle of the night, and felt Cel's warm form cuddled into his chest. They were in the bed. How she'd moved him was beyond his understanding, but he didn't question it. He shook his head, focusing on the warmth of her body against his to banish the bloody images from his dreams.

Cel shivered slightly, and he drew her closer, pulling the heavy blankets up to cover her exposed shoulder. She sighed happily in her sleep, and the feeling of contentment overcame him without her even trying. He relaxed, feeling the cool breeze of her presence envelop him, soothing away the dreams. He felt himself dozing again. Before he lost consciousness, he managed two words.

"I'm sorry…"

.

…

…

…

.

The morning was bleak. Clouds obscured the sun with the dull threat of rain, and they packed their things with a resigned efficiency. Leaving the inn, they passed through the morning markets, eventually making their way to the stables where Bertellus had been kept. After thoroughly checking the horse for any injury or sign of poor care, Drake paid his last two coins to the stable-master and they paced out into the dull light of the morning. Drake hefted himself into the saddle and held out a hand for Cel to join him.

"Come on." He muttered quietly. They were the first words either of them had spoken since the previous night.

"Do you mind if we walk back?" she asked sullenly. "I want to feel the ground under my feet for a little while longer."

"I'd enjoy that." He nodded, sliding from the saddle and walking toward the gate.

They made it six hours before the sky opened up. Rain fell in sheets, drenching the ground and turning it into a muddy, slippery mess. After almost losing her footing for the third time, Cel admitted that they should probably ride through the storm. Drake mounted again, and held his hand out to haul her up into the saddle. Cel focused for a moment and their clothes dried instantly. The rain simply rolled off of the two of them like they were coated in oil. Bertellus was dried with equal efficiency, and he clomped through the mud, warm and contented.

It was several minutes before Drake worked up the courage to break the silence.

"I'm s…"

"Apology accepted." Cel cut him off. She turned in the saddle to face him. "You apologized last night, remember?"

"Killing is all I know." He said, sounding ashamed.

"It isn't all you know." She chided him with a smile. "It's what you're best at. Huge difference."

"Then what do I do?" he asked, his tone imploring.

"You need to be a shield for the people, not a blade at the enemy's throat." She said, speaking like a teacher to a pupil. "That was why I tweaked your dreams last night. By all means, do what you're best at, but you need focus, not fury. You need to be that cold calm at the heart of the battle that others draw inspiration from."

He nodded.

"I'll try." He muttered lamely.

"You'll succeed." She corrected him. "I've been watching. You've been doing so well. Your rage doesn't have nearly the hold on you that it used to." She leaned back into his chest, letting her eyes drift shut. "I've been proud of you for a while. Even before meeting you for myself."

He was silent.

She dug her heels into Bertellus' flanks, bringing the massive horse to a canter and eating up the distance to the site where they'd first met.

They each rode, enjoying the feel of the wind and the closeness of the other. Drake's arms curled protectively around her waist and her hands gently guiding the reins. After what seemed like no time at all, the scenery became familiar again, and with a shared sinking feeling they realized they'd arrived.

The bodies were all where he'd left them. The crater of the demon's passing was already filled in with grass. She guided Bertellus to the shore of the lake where she'd appeared, next to the shattered remains of the stone altar. Drake slid from the saddle, lifting her and bringing her down gently.

They stared into each other's eyes and the silence stretched for what seemed like an eternity. Neither one wanted to let go. Eventually Drake found his voice.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "We can…"

"Just do it." She cut him off, her face downcast.

He let his arms fall to his sides, and the instant they broke contact, the rain began to soak his hair and clothes. Sighing at the imminent pain, he suppressed his power, pulling it all in and fastening the iron shackles of his will in place around it.

Her eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, and the inner glow that had suffused her when they first met returned. The clouds parted, and a shaft of brilliant sunlight haloed her, forming a break in the rain just big enough for her to stand in. Her hair straightened and lengthened, becoming perfect and white again. Her leathers shifted and thinned, becoming a gown of purest silk. She opened eyes that were now sapphire blue and regarded him, a neutral expression on her features.

"Kneel, Knight of the Way." She said, her voice carrying that unsettling resonance again. He did so. Bowing his head and wincing as it set a spike of pain through his temples. Her hand settled gently on the top of his soaked hair. "Drake," she began. "You have been found worthy in the eyes of the Blessed Lady. Your strength of character and your convictions have brought some light to the dark times we currently face. You have been a pillar of strength for the people for the past two years. Here is the reward for that strength." An ornate chalice appeared before him, forming from the mist rolling off of the lake. It was filled with cool, clear water. "Drink."

He lifted it gently and sipped the water. It was sublime, and felt like a cool breeze through his entire body. The feeling faded, replaced by warmth that suffused his whole being. As his recent injuries vanished, he felt new strength flood through him, and the pain in his head even ebbed. He felt a supreme sense of contentment and purpose, and his eyes drifted shut. He was a protector, someone to stand between the dark and the light. Images of past glory flashed past his eyes, the battles he'd fought, the struggles he'd endured. Those two familiar faces that had haunted him at the siege appeared in his mind's eye, and nodded with approval.

"The body is healed, but the scars remain. Your scars show your courage, and so you will carry them forever." His coat fell from his body, followed by the knives on his boots, and the throwing blades on his chest. The straps were intact, but every buckle and tie was unfastening of its own accord. He felt the familiar weight of his knightly armor settle over his form, contoured perfectly to his body. "You are no longer a Knight of the Way. You are now my Scarred Dragon." She paused, letting the title sink in. "Receive the Blessing of the Lady, Source of Grace and Protector of the Innocent."

He felt her hand lift from the top of his head and settle on his chest, what sounded like the scratching of a quill emanated from his tabard. He rose, and turned away, head still bowed. Opening his eyes, he regarded his chest. The rearing dragon still stood proud in white, but was covered in a latticework of scars that mirrored his own flesh. He began to move away, but stopped when he felt a hand catch his arm. He glanced back on reflex, and when their eyes met, hers had lost the radiance. They were brown. She was Cel again, at least for a moment.

"And receive the thanks of a girl who had forgotten how it felt to be alive," she smiled, her voice human again. Their lips met, and her arms wrapped around the back of his neck. His hands came gently around her back. The kiss was gentle, and they held it for what seemed like an age. "Would that we had met when I was still a mortal," she whispered as they came apart, a single tear rolling down her cheek. He pulled her into a tight hug, holding her close.

"You'll see me again." He whispered after several minutes, releasing his grip and bringing a thumb up to wipe the tear from her cheek.

"You promise?" she asked, vulnerability creeping into her voice.

"I promise." He nodded, wincing as the headache returned. "In the meantime I'll watch over your knights."

She smiled at that, feeling the power begin to flood back into her. Her eyes started to glow again, the brown fading into a radiant blue, and her face became impassive. "Go forth, my champion. Return to the Citadel and take your sword back from the stone. Serve the cause and do what is right. I shall…" she hesitated, the indifferent face seemed to strain for a moment, emotion warring with calm. When she spoke again, her voice had an echo. The Lady's calm diction and Cel's emotional drawl overlapped.

"I'll watch over you." The twinned voices said.

.

…

…

…

…

…

.

"…and that's how it went." Drake finished, staring down into his mug, a touch of sadness in his voice. The whole bar had gone silent at some point during the telling, and chairs and tables had been scooted closer to hear the story. Drake glanced around nervously before turning to Jiraiya. "That work for you?"

"You literally slept with a goddess." Naruto slurred, approval rich in his voice.

"She was mortal when it happened." Drake amended. "Please don't tell Tenten. It was years before I even came over here, but you know how she can get. I still have kunai scars from _Icha Icha Cataclysm_ a few years back."

A few of the assembled shinobi snickered quietly.

"Did you ever see her again?" a voice from the other side of the bar called out.

"I did." He called back. "We had a bit of a thing going for a while."

"I still call bullshit," Kakashi spoke with a smirk in his eyes. It had been years, and still none of them could understand how the man managed to drink without removing his mask.

"That's fair." Drake nodded, downing his drink and waving for another.

"Did the blessing actually…" Naruto paused, trying to choose his words carefully and failing at it, "_**do**_ anything?"

"For the longest time, I didn't think so." Drake conceded, draining another mug. "But then, you guys have seen it. How often do I get stabbed, or clubbed, or slashed, and it just _barely_ misses killing me?"

"Too often," Shikamaru said bluntly. "It's uncanny."

"That's her?" Naruto had a childlike wonder writ plain across his features. The bartender arrived with a fresh tray of drinks.

"I'd like to think that it is." He picked up another mug and raised it high, looking up at the ceiling. "Cel… If you're still out there, I want to thank you. I never planned to live past twenty. I'm thirty two now. I found my way. Here's to you, Cel."

"To Cel!" the entire bar chorused. And then, just for the briefest of moments, everyone present felt a feeling of approval pulse through them, carrying with it the barest hint of brown eyes and a warm smile.


	2. Epilogue

The traveler approached the Citadel with a calm confidence that had been absent the first time he'd done it. Stabling his horse, he shook the dust of travel from his long black coat, hands coming down to rest on the pair of swords sheathed at his hips. An oversized leather scabbard hung empty across his back, and a pair of long knives were sheathed in his boots. He approached the gate, fighting the urge to draw a throwing blade just to be safe.

"I come bearing the blade of the Fallen Star!" he roared at the gate, his tone clipped and formal. "To tell of a brother knight's bravery and see his blade to a position of honor!"

"Who are you?" a voice spoke through a hidden grate in the door.

"I am a former brother." The huge stranger spoke quietly. "I was there when the Fallen Star and the Scarred Dragon were blessed by the Goddess. I carry their blades."

The gate was opened hurriedly, and a grizzled knight with a patch over one eye let him in, gesturing to one of the branch tunnels that led into the depths of the citadel.

Several winding hallways and descending staircases later, he was led to a small room. An armored knight sat at the table, his tabard showing the symbol of a book bisected by a bolt of lightning. The room was practically overflowing. Scrolls, books, and loose sheaves of parchment were shelved and piled everywhere. A long scroll was unfurled before the knight, and a quill scratched mercilessly at it.

"I am Olm, the Chronicler." The man said by way of greeting, not even looking up from his scribing.

"I know of you," the stranger admitted, "Blessed by the Lady on the fifth day of the second moon, twelve years ago."

"And I you," Olm nodded, "Blessed on the seventeeth day of this very moon, less than two weeks ago."

The stranger tensed.

"Worry not, lad. I'm in the business of recording secrets, not telling them."

"Then you know who I actually am." The traveler conceded, seemingly to himself.

"I do. The goddess tasked me with recording everything. I am the seventh chronicler to hold this position, and we hear every time the Goddess makes a decree." Olm finally stopped writing, lifting his eyes to take in the traveler. His eyes hovered on the bandolier of throwing blades displayed on the figure's chest and he clicked his tongue in disapproval. He turned and began rummaging through the massive pile of discarded parchment behind the desk. "It had been six years since one of us was blessed." Olm muttered. "After this, you'll move to the great hall, and tell the aspirants a tastefully revised version of your story." Olm ordered. "Let them know that the Goddess still watches us. Aha!" His hands found what they sought. A large, iron-bound book was thumped onto the writing desk without ceremony.

"Is that…?" the traveler trailed off as he read the upside-down title of the book.

_-The Chronicle-_

"It is." Olm nodded, "The most sacred book of the order."

"And you didn't remember where you'd left it?"

"We all have our failings." Olm nodded to the throwing blades on the traveler's chest. "I'm Olm the Chronicler, not Olm the Rememberer."

The traveler chuckled softly.

"It's amazing how the blessing seems to encourage our eccentricities, isn't it?"

"It is. If the aspirants knew that…" Olm trailed off, and a brief moment of genuine camaraderie flickered between the two men. A feather-light touch of Olm's hand opened the brass lock of the massive tome, and he effortlessly opened to the first empty page. "For now, tell me everything that happened."

.

…

…

…

.

An hour later, a small crowd of knights and knights-in-training sat in the grand hall, listening as the traveler spoke in hushed tones about the Fall of the Star, and the Scarred Dragon. He'd made it as far as the first Sharn priest being killed when a voice challenged him.

"You would have us believe that an anointed champion of the lady used such dishonorable weapons?" he sneered. The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen, wearing richly made armor that shimmered in the firelight. He was flanked on either side by similarly attired teens. Aspirants, about to take up the Quest. "You slander the name of the Scarred Dragon, a man far above you."

The traveler's face split into a broad, genuine smile, and he laughed softly. "You take issue with my telling?"

"You dishonor a fellow knight." The boy was getting angry.

"I'll not change the truth just to satisfy your honor, lad." The stranger shook his head. "If you want to make something of it, then do so."

"Very well." The young knight-aspirant nodded. "I challenge you on behalf of the Scarred Dragon. I'll not have you sully his honor while he isn't here to tell us what really happened."

"I accept." The stranger nodded. "First blood, then?"

"Third blood." The young knight snarled, before standing and drawing his blade.

The stranger chuckled and stood, pacing to the center of the hall and gently pushing a few chairs aside to clear space. He crouched and calmly drew the long knife from his left boot. He waited until the young knight was about to protest before cutting him off.

"I'll not sully either of these swords with the blood of a fellow knight."

"You are no knight." The boy almost spat the words, before kneeling and placing his sword point-down on the ground. "Lady of grace, guide my blade."

The stranger's smile returned.

The young knight's footwork was excellent. He held the blade like an extension of his arm, and his balance was flawless. He had mastered the sword-forms of the Citadel, and took the stance perfectly. The traveler in black nodded his appreciation at the skill. The young knight suddenly moved in a blur, his sword glimmering in a perfect downward arc. The stranger caught the sword with the knife in his left hand, and delivered a thunderous right cross to the young aspirant's face. The gauntleted fist struck with the force of a siege engine and the boy's armored form collapsed to the ground without a sound.

The gathered knights stood in stunned silence as the man in black stooped beside the unconscious knight, carefully removing his left gauntlet and glove. Drawing the knife quickly across the back of the hand, he cut three shallow lines.

"Third blood." The traveler muttered sadly. "Your opponents will not fight honorably just because you do. Remember that. Be ready for it."

He turned to the young aspirant's group.

"Get him to the Healer's Hall and make sure I didn't crack his skull."

They obeyed without question, carrying the dazed knight away.

The stranger calmly paced to the chair he'd occupied only seconds before, sitting down and sheathing the knife.

"Now, where was I?"

.

…

…

…

.

Sir Zadakian was carrying a large satchel over one shoulder, and was wearing his full armor. He'd overseen the internment of young Tovar's blade, and the stonemasons were already working on the inscription honoring the fallen hero.

_Such a waste,_ he thought bitterly. _Another shining example for the order, cut down before his prime, while old relics like me still roam the countryside._

"Leaving already?"

The voice pulled him from his musings. The stranger in the black coat strode beside him, matching his pace.

"I have been here for a night and a half," the elderly night spoke. "I must be on my way again."

"May I ride with you?" he asked the old knight, his tone still formal. "I would share a fire."

"Why?" the old knight stopped in his tracks, raising a white eyebrow.

"The Lady," The traveler leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "She told me you wanted to hear my story."

The elder knight's eyes went wide. The realization struck him like a physical blow before his practiced smile came back.

"You're younger than I'd have thought." He admitted.

"I get that a lot." The stranger chuckled.

"I would enjoy having someone to share the road." Zadakian admitted with a nod, gesturing to the younger knights and aspirants crowding the gates. "But you'll need to deal with the upstarts first."

A small group of knights led by a familiar face were blocking his path.

"You are no champion of the Lady." One of the younger knights, the one he'd bested, fumed at the traveler. His left hand was bandaged, and a livid purple bruise covered the left side of his face. "You violate the Tenets of the Way with your weapons. You violate it with your very manner. You carry throwing blades. You dishonored me in what was supposed to be a proper duel. What proof do you have that you have been blessed by the Lady of Grace?"

The stranger unfastened one of his belts, tossing his sheathed blade toward the young knight. The armored youth caught it on reflex.

"Set that next to Tovar's." he ordered, striding calmly through the gap and pacing into the courtyard. He stopped for a moment, in the middle of the forest of blades. "The two blades banished that Demon together. They should stay together."

The younger knight opened his mouth to challenge the command, but the stranger's hand fell to the handle of one of the blades embedded in the stone of the courtyard. The stone beneath him began to glow faintly. With a single relaxed motion, he pulled the oversized sword from the stone and sheathed it on his back. The scabbard fit perfectly. He turned and walked from the courtyard without a word, leaving the stunned knights to process what they had just seen.

Olm the Chronicler pushed his way through the crowd. He paced to the stone that the blade had been taken from just in time to see the glow fading from a new engraving. A smile forming on his face, he read it aloud.

"_Drake!"_ a hush fell over the assembled knights at the mention of the name. _"The Scarred Dragon!"_


End file.
